


Fairytale of New Scotland Yard

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Christmas, Christmas Advent Fic, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Christmas Tree, Don't copy to another site, EVERY Christmas trope ever, Holiday opposites, I'll have to add more later..., Inspired by A Christmas Carol, It's a Wonderful Life, M/M, Oh wow... how do I tag this?, Sharing Body Heat, THERE IS LITERALLY EVERYTHING!, The grinchy one likes the elfy one, accidental bed sharing, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 57,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: This is a Christmas love story:Greg Lestrade loved Christmas. He loved winter, the bite in the air, the flurries and occasional actual snow, the colorful lights, the sometimes loud decorations, the songs, the singing, the parties, the people, the presents, the surprises, the food and the drink, and the genuine good cheer...Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas. He hated the winter, the cold actually made his knee and hip ache - though that was not something others were ever to know - the tiny crystals of frozen death that fell from the sky to disrupt the proper function of transportation were terrible, the blinking lights and loud noises brought about his migraines, the abysmal excuse for what passed as music - not to mention the people singing it, dear Lord - the ever increasing social obligations and nonstop political kowtowing, the people, the sheer volume of people...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 613
Kudos: 438
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019, Sherlock (BBC)





	1. The Term Grinchy Shall Apply When Christmas Spirit Is In Short Supply

**Author's Note:**

> I have challenged myself to fit nearly every possible Christmas trope into one cohesive work. I feel well accomplished. I'm aiming for just about a chapter a day, but I know real life may complicate that and I may not hit that goal. I'll adjust tags and ratings if needed... Please enjoy.

Greg Lestrade loved Christmas. He loved winter, the bite in the air, the flurries and occasional actual snow, the colorful lights, the sometimes loud decorations, the songs, the singing, the parties, the people, the presents, the surprises, the food and the drink, and the genuine good cheer. He wasn’t much of a church goer, but even going into Advent, he was known to haunt the vigils. Maybe it was the candles and the greenery, or the messages of hope, or the familiarity of the stories, but a holiday that managed to get him to a weekly mass couldn’t be bad at all.

Halloween was not too shabby, don’t mistake him there. It was fun and full of mischief, and he could get up to all manner of playful banter. But something about the masks kept him from fully enjoying the festivities. And now that he was pushing fifty, his GP was always on about his diet. And the nights out around Halloween always seemed to involve a bit too much alcohol, fireworks, more mayhem than absolutely necessary. So while Halloween could be fun, Christmas was where it’s at. Yes, Greg Lestrade loved Christmas.

The day after Halloween, Greg would go to mass - because it was a Holy Day of Obligation, not because of some sort of shenanigans from the night before - clean his flat, make his way to the storage in the basement, and the Christmas decorations were dusted off and made ready. They didn’t go up then, no, not yet. And no tree. And none of that artificial tree nonsense. A tree came later. It had to last through the season. If you bought a tree in November, you’d be more likely to set your flat on fire than have a happy Christmas. But the beginning of the holiday cheer came out. The Christmas music started to appear on playlists, the films stacked on the TV stand, the spices reappeared in the cupboards. A slow, methodical Christmas creep, like a pre-Advent Advent calendar of celebration.

In the first week of November, Greg put together his Christmas card list. It gave him time to think about it, find addresses, check to make sure they were still right. Add the names of kids, remove the names of ex’s, really plan out the postal trips. In the second week of November, he put together his gifts list. Not necessarily what everyone would get, but at least who he wanted to shop for. Brainstorming time. Finding that perfect present. He’d stock up on wrapping paper, plan his holiday cards and order them, stamps… 

Closer to the end of November, he had to look at the roster and negotiate with The Ex. Whose year was it for Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, New Years? Would they try a big meal at some point? What was important on the school calendar? And most of all, who was going to get what for whom so there was no disappointment and no showing off. Greg never abided by those agreements. Why bother? Christmas was a celebration, and if it meant spoiling his kid just a bit, then guess what? Santa was going to have a big bag of gifts to dump in his flat for Ellie. That’s all there was to it. It didn’t matter that Greg had to put up with a few rotten Christmases as a kid; his daughter was never going to associate Christmas with disappointment. God help him. Never.

So yeah. Greg Lestrade loved Christmas. And he celebrated it like a joyful, competitive sport.

~

Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas. He hated the winter, the cold actually made his knee and hip ache - though that was not something others were ever to know - the tiny crystals of frozen death that fell from the sky to disrupt the proper function of transportation were terrible, the blinking lights and loud noises brought about his migraines, the abysmal excuse for what passed as music - not to mention the people singing it, dear Lord - the ever increasing social obligations and nonstop political kowtowing, the people, the sheer volume of people, the gifts one had to obtain and the shops through which one had to pass, the irritating unpredictability of it, the volume of food that was foisted upon you at any moment, the excess of alcohol - and the forms in which that alcohol took in favor of mimicking peppermint - and most of all, the forced, unrealistic, sickeningly sweet cheer that everyone plastered on their faces. Between the dinners, the parties, the church, the government, the family, the pounds of extra weight, Christmas was the worst.

Halloween was a disaster of a holiday. Thankfully, the Canadians had the good sense to have already celebrated their excessive food holiday before the tooth rotting of Halloween; the Americans still had three weeks before turkey, which was frightfully close to Christmas, and made for an absurd amount of dinner fowl, unless one went with ham, but that was actually ridiculous. Who ate ham at Christmas? Heathens, that’s who. And after the Houses managed to contain their idiocy and shrug off the insult of costumes fashioned after their likeness, there was perhaps only one month during which actual work would be completed. So Halloween, then thirty days of productivity, and the world devolved into festive, merry, sedentism. Yes, Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas.

The day after Halloween, Mycroft would force himself not to go into hiding. He had roughly three days to force anyone and everyone to work, before there were more fireworks. Celebrating the near destruction of Parliament by setting off small bombs and burning bits of the countryside was tantamount to terrorism. After spending an entire night fending off small humans in horrifying costumes by bribing them with sweets, fending off the outstretched palms of fully grown adults looking to burn a human effigy was just too much. More than anything, the mental gymnastics needed to avoid playing the game, ‘Was that a bomb or was that just a firework?’ were frankly exhausting. Pagans and Heathens and Fat men in red suits. He really ought to book a flight to the Maldives and stay there until the new year.

With half of the first week of November wasted on burning Catholics, the second week of November was often wasted burning bridges as the end of year expenses were tallied and shortfalls anticipated. November was for tightening belts, firming ground, and keeping a weathered eye on your political enemies. This was when Mycroft began to mentally compose his list for Holiday cards. Those receiving gifts would always be few and far between, but cards were careful game of chess. To receive a card one year and not the next could be an accidental oversight, but was more likely a purposeful slight. Misname one’s child (on purpose), address a card to one politician and their mistress (on purpose), stamp a signature rather bothering to write a note or sign it himself (on purpose). It was never accidental. It was careful, methodical, and hilariously effective.

The later weeks of November often brought about frost, which was rather dreadful. But it allowed for scarves and gloves and a bit of wardrobe frippery that would otherwise be ignored. It also heralded the need for something more protective than an umbrella and well made, Italian, leather shoes. It also allowed for the smell and comfort of a well built fire. A small indulgence, as he tended to be more productive seated at a desk near an in-use hearth. Really, that was how one should properly spend their winter: in a warm den, with a comfortable chair or couch, near a roaring fire, with adequate reading material. The rest of the holiday nonsense could take a hike.

Closer to the end of November, family obligations began to rear their ugly heads. Mummy and Daddy would likely be in the city for parties, or the ballet, or to have - shudder - family time. Always with a warm smile, always with a critical eye, always with a comment about his success (or lack there of) and weight (or lack there of - thank you very much), always asking about Sherlock. They could very easily ascertain the knowledge themselves, but rather liked to badger him about the ups and downs that embodied his mercurial brother. Yes, of course he was going to eat minced pies and drink some wine. It would be downright unpatriotic not to. And he fully expected the needling he’d get in return for the smallest indulgence when there was nothing but excess surrounding him.

So yes. Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas. And he nurtured that hatred with all the attention and devotion of a new parent.


	2. Oh Come All Ye Faithful

The Violent Crimes Division of New Scotland Yard’s holiday party and associated ‘winter anonymous gift exchange’ was always a raucous event. Whether that was the case because Greg Lestrade allowed it to be boisterous, or because he openly encouraged rambunctious merriment was up for debate. He certainly enjoyed boyish mischief as much as the next person, and the season left him in high spirits, giddy, much like… well, a kid at Christmas. The emails circulated early. The online, random Secret Santa generator would be up and running from the get-go - maximum ten pound limit, mandatory secrecy. There would be plenty of food, an abundance of decorations, and an ill-advised amount of alcohol. The day after would see hangovers, stale food, sore heads, and wilting decorations, but it was, by far and wide, the best morale booster of the year.

Whomever drew the shorter straw and were on duty during the day of the party were rewarded with their choice of beverage at signout and got to start off the gift exchange. Whomever drew the shortest straw and were on duty during the actual party had either elected to be on duty or were rewarded with their choice beverage at the morning signout, as the party was, inevitably only just winding down. Whomever didn’t work on the day, or immediately after, clean up became their responsibility. And Greg Lestrade made sure that the work and shenanigans were evenly distributed and enjoyed.

Past celebrations had seen the formation of some unorthodox friendships, most notably one of the forensic IT techs and former psychic CI; the dissolution of relationships, most notoriously when Anderson declared his intention to renew his wedding vows; and the necessity of invention, most hilariously when Sherlock demonstrated how to create a miniature flamethrower with the holiday decorations and it became rapidly apparent there were not enough fire extinguishers in the building. And at the center of every drinking game, every good-natured prank, every singing gift-o-gram, every karaoke caroling, and every fancy dress elf and santa combo was Greg Lestrade.

“Sal, it’s time to put up the duty lotto. Can you find out who wants to work for the party?”

“On it.”

“Johnson!”

“Boss?”

“Does your cousin still have that deck for rent? We need music and karaoke.”

“Need it for the eighteenth?”

“You know it.” 

“I’m on it.”

Greg patted his shoulder, “Good man.”

“Oi, Dimmock? Will your team sort the food again this year?”

“Are you asking, because you’re hoping my Nan will bake those cookies again?”

“Not only because…”

“We will if your team has the bevs.”

Greg grinned. “It’ll be our pleasure.” He raised his voice so that he could be heard across the bullpen. “Check your emails everyone! RSVPs and Secret Santas are non-negotiable!”

~

Her Majesty’s Department of Transportation hosted a non-denominational, seasonal, black-tie, cocktail party with hors d'oeuvres. It was civilised, calm, tasteful, superficial, political, formal, and mandatory. The tradition was instituted by Mycroft’s predecessor, and rather than suspend it all together, he opted to continue as the lesser of all irritating evils. It was an opportunity for polite conversation between multiple departments and back corridor handshakes. And if it required some refined and high quality, string quartet versions of classical holiday music and some tasteful sprigs of holly, Mycroft Holmes would tolerate it. But only for a few hours. And only with a decent glass of champagne. And only once a year. He couldn’t have his employees too hungover to conduct themselves appropriately the next day.

Thankfully, Anthea was well aware of Mycroft’s particularites. She would see that the waitstaff was appropriately discrete and the alcohol was tasteful without being over-abundant. She would limit the decorations to restrained elegance. She would see there was a selection of small, pleasing finger foods, unlikely to cause grease stains on a tuxedo or a silk gown. And most importantly, the event would be quickly and quietly cleaned up afterwards. There were no shenanigans, and people would return home, speaking only of the bland and unremarkable nature of the evening.

Mycroft perpetuated the unexceptional, borderline boring affair, only because they were so successful. Past conventions had seen the formation of previously unattainable treaties between erstwhile enemies, he was particularly proud of the deal struck between a prominent vaccine manufacturer and a reluctant shipping magnate. Not all conversations resulted in such victories, however. Three years prior, an unfortunate chip in a champagne glass resulted in great affront that led to the bombing of a well known holiday resort. That had been incredibly disappointing. And in an entirely too memorable evening, the prime minister arrived in a less than sober state, and proceded to personally offend no less than five international diplomats. Mycroft spent the remainder of that evening putting out metaphorical fires, and one quite literal one. Regardless of his distaste for the whole of the holiday, on that specific night, at the center of every negotiation, every toast and censure, every carefully constructed meeting and dismissal was Mycroft Holmes.

“Anthea?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Have we quite finished the arrangements for the annual holiday festivity?”

“Of course.”

“And we’re not-”

“Not this year. We made our displeasure quite clear last year.”

“Very good.”

“I’ve made an appointment for you to meet with your tailor. The invitations have been posted. The sommelier has selected this year’s vintages. The catering company will provide the staff as well as the food. And our venue is, as always, at our disposal.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft nodded once. “If you should find it needed, please treat yourself to-”

“I have already done so.” A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “It’s a beautiful gown, not overly extravagant. Thank you for your generosity.”

“Well… Happy holidays.”


	3. Annual Christmas Annuals

Greg hefted the stack of books in his arms and headed for the register with a broad grin. The Christmas Annuals had been released and it was time to start picking them out for just the right people. Bit of a stroke of luck that he was needed briefly at Baker Street. He would rarely have his car on the Marylebone otherwise, and Daunt was one of the best places to shop over the holidays. He had something in his pile for everyone in the family - Ellie, Millie, Pete, a gag for Donovan - she needed the laugh really, one for Sherlock and a very different one for John, he’d picked up one for Mycroft in jest - he honestly didn’t know if the man enjoyed them, Ollie always got a proper Arsenal annual - even if he complained to high end, and the lads at the station all got crime solver annuals - it was a fun take on the job, and everyone loved them.

In all honesty, Greg Lestrade had loved the Christmas Annuals for about as long as he could remember. His mum, bless her soul, had gotten him the odd one when he was really little, though he couldn’t exactly remember which ones. With Millie and Pete, it’d always been Rupert the Bear, he would have to ask them why, one of these days.

One of his favorite things to do, early in the season, was to flip through the Christmas catalogues. The Harrods Holiday book, Harry and David catalogue, Hay Hampers, Hatchards for books, Neiman Marcus, Christmas Harper Holiday Bizarre, and even Bonhams. It was gratuitous navel gazing of the first order. And he was horribly unlikely to purchase anything from one of these catalogues. But, should he find himself in a shop that had something similar for far less money, he’d be inclined to buy it. He did like everything in his life to reflect the holiday season… With gusto.

He loaded the purchases into the boot of his car and headed back to the Yard. It would be another few days before he could unload them. And a few more beyond before he’d be wrapping them. But the catalogues were being delivered piecewise to his flat. And the ideas were coming. Popcorn. He needed to get some popcorn and cranberries to make some garland. In a week he’d be getting his tree. When he got home that evening, he was going to crack that Harry and David catalogue, look at some nice food baskets, all laid out on a Christmas background that he could replicate in his flat… to the best of his ability.

If nothing else, he was happy to bake some brie and slice some apple and mull some wine. It wasn’t Harry and David level, but it was tradition. And he was good at it.

~

Mycroft pushed through the front door of his house and quickly disarmed the security that was blaring. With a heavy sigh, he removed his coat and scarf, hung them neatly by the door, and rearmed the system. That sorted, he glared at the source of the heavy door. Catalogues. Multiple large ones. Mixed in with the daily post. And creating a small barricade, impinging upon door movement. It was hardly safe. Nor was it requested. Nor wanted. It was bad enough that the post often was dotted with melted snow and bits of grit for being scattered across the hardwood. Absurd bricks of wasteful holiday nonsense was too much. Apparently, it was that time of year.

Mycroft stooped to collect the post and appallingly bright, glossy compendiums and headed to his home office. Post was sorted. Bills renumerated. Then he was forced to address the remaining stack. Harrods, how trite. Mycroft could not be paid to step foot into Harrods, no matter how appealing the wares - not that they were at all appealing. Overpriced dross for people with too much money and not enough sense. Harry and David was less offensive, though horribly ill-advised. One could purchase pears and almonds of better quality and taste without the unfortunate wicker basket. Best avoid the temptation. He raised a brow at the Runner’s World Annual - that was new. Oh… Sherlock, of course. How droll. Hatchards wasn’t the worst thing to peruse. The Hay Hampers belonged in the bin.

He set aside the Bonhams catalogue, mummy would enjoy that sort of navel gazing. The rest were relocated to the kindling basket he kept next to the fireplace. He would enjoy a warm fire, a good book, and a cup of tea with thanks to Harper Holiday for the ease of starting the fire. He had enough year end reports to read and analyze without adding holiday pressures to the pile.

Besides, none of the Christmas Annuals appropriately conveyed the appeal Mycroft’s tradition of sitting alone, indulging in a mince pie and hot whiskey with lemon.


	4. Deck The Halls

When it came time to start decorating, Greg Lestrade was a master. His flat would go from a bit wintery drab to straight up holiday heaven in one short evening. His office was subjected to something more of a Christmas creep, sneaking in items one at a time until the night of the Holiday Party, at which point, it looked like something straight from the Island of Misfit Toys. Regardless, once it was officially December, all bets were off.

It was after the end of a long case. Nothing particularly horrendous, just long. They were all so deep into their overtime that the DCI had asked for the odd short day. Not everyone was thrilled; the holidays were expensive. A bit of overtime could float you through the paycheque drought that was January. But Greg happily took the half day to start decorating.

He’d taken it upon himself to bring up the boxes decorations the week before, so all there was to do was unpack and hang. He turned on what he considered ‘Early Christmas’ music - this time, it was the  _ Charlie Brown Christmas _ soundtrack. Nice and light.  _ Love Actually _ would have to wait for a few more days. He made himself a hot cocoa - with a very generous portion of cointreau, tucked the box for the trees aside, and started unwrapping, unpacking, hanging, and setting all the fantastic cheer around his flat.

He stacked the Christmas DVDs and CDs on his entertainment center. Then the old garlands and wreaths, with gold ribbons woven through them were spread on the mantel and railings and doors. Artificial candles dotted the window sills. A stocking for himself and one for Ellie on either end of the mantel, far enough to the sides that they wouldn’t catch fire if someone were careless - afterall, Millie had made them personally.

Then he would change the music to something stronger, catchier, one of the  _ Very Special Christmas _ albums, and he’d make a hot toddy. And then he’d tackle his enemy: the fairy lights. He had multiple strings of colorful lights, but inevitably, they were all tangled together, and one light would be burnt out, and one would be set to blinking because he’d replaced a previously broken light with a mystery pattern one. But by the time his mug was empty - whether that was the second hot toddy or not - and the lights strung up, his flat was nearly perfect.

There was a box of odds and ends that didn’t have permanent homes: the bobby nutcracker, the wonky snowflakes cut from paper, a stand up decoration rather than a hanging one, a plushie Santa, a weird Christmas troll doorstop, the Christmas guest towels, the winter themed throw blanket. Once they were all set up somewhere, the only thing that would be left was picking out his Christmas trees and collecting a poinsettia for the table.

He opened the box of office decorations and selected one to kick off his work-related festivity. His phone pinged on the table and he stretched to grab it.

_ We’re overdue a pint. Busy? _

Greg grinned. He was, in fact, not busy. And was happily in the mood for a pint with John..

**_Could be spared. Just finishing up. Where?_ **

_ It can wait if you’re busy. _

**_Not at all. Decorations are up._ **

_ Meet in twenty? _

**_You got it._ **

When he walked in to their usual haunt, he was pleased and wary to see John already situated in a booth with a round ready for drinking.

“Well, go on. What’s he done?”

John raised both brows. “Does he need to do something for us to grab a drink?”

“No,” Greg held up a conciliatory hand. “It’s just that there’s normally something that sets you off my way.”

John just shook his head. “I needed to get out for a bit.”

“Ah.” Greg nodded and grinned. “Then do I have something to show you!” He set one of the Christmas decorations on the table between them.

“Christ! What on earth is that?”

“Oh, it gets better… It plays music.”

John gaped as the tinny music came out of the moving decoration. “Greg. I really really need to borrow that.”

“Have at.”

~

221B Baker Street was an oddity of the highest order, and one that Mycroft constantly puzzled over. The ever-present clutter and grime was underlined with an unusual order, most likely due to Dr. Watson, and attention to sterility, due to both Sherlock and the good doctor. When it came time for the holidays, it seemed one was equally likely to walk into a warm, fragrant, cozy Christmas retreat; or a barren wasteland of Dickensian bleakness. And until you opened the door to the flat, it was impossible to predict.

Mrs. Hudson, nee Pierce, doting nanny-like landlady - not housekeeper - former purveyor of illicit substances, now rather upstanding citizen who managed to own an entire building in central London - think of that what you will - adored Christmas. She would decorate and bake from the get-go. From the entryway, you could often smell mulled wine or fresh mince pies overlying the evergreen pine. Certainly the wreath on the front door was her doing.

This year, as Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair - yes, in Sherlock’s chair, as had been made abundantly clear, and was very clearly preferred to John’s chair, based on the expression on his brother’s face - very few decorations had managed to manafest… Yet. Often, a Santa hat would find its way onto the Bison skull or the other skull. The odd candle would be lit. Christmas cards hung from string. Eventually, John would breakdown and get a tree. Sherlock would creatively deck it with something grotesquely apropo. None of this seemed to have started.

“Mycroft.” John pushed into the flat and shucked his coat.

“Dr. Watson.”

“Waiting for Sherlock?”

The question was unnecessary. Were he waiting for John Watson, his arrival would have resulted in the beginning of a conversation. Rather than answer, he tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Well, he’s been at Bart’s all day, I think. So you may be waiting a while longer.”

“Nevertheless…”

John hummed, a small smile on his face. Ah, he was mildly inebriated. Out at the pub with a friend. Likely to escape whatever had caused the offensive smell wafting from the loo. “Tea?”

“Lovely.”

John dumped whatever item he’d been holding on the coffee table and headed for the kitchen. “Back in a mo.”

Mycroft nodded, then stared at the item on the table. He was, in fact, still staring at it when John returned with tea. “Thank you,” he murmured absently.

John smiled. “Neat, huh?”

“What, in God’s name, is that?”

“Christmas decoration. Just got it.”

“It’s hideous.”

“I know.” John took a sip of his tea. “I love it.”

Mycroft frowned. “It’s… a poor, hairy impression of a cartoon Christmas tree.”

John’s smile stretched into a grin as he reached out and pushed the anthropomorphic mitten hand. The tree jumped to life, the motorized cyclical movements - obviously meant to approximate dancing - creating a grinding sound that was only barely overshadowed by the tinny, horrendous version of  _ Rocking Around The Christmas Tree _ emanated from somewhere within the eight-inch monstrosity. “It plays music too!”

“Dear Lord,” Mycroft recoiled. “That is grotesque.”

“Got it from Lestrade.” John sipped his tea again. “I think I might leave it on Sherlock’s nightstand.”

“It will breed nightmares.”

John grinned again. “Happy Christmas.”


	5. The More You Give

Christmas was a happy time. It should be a happy time. It could be a happy time. And it was a specific time of year when Greg Lestrade was well aware of his numerous blessings. He had a steady job in a stable career that gave him adequate income to keep a roof over his head and food on his table. He had a daughter that he loved to bits and she adored him in return. And he had enough to provide her with more than he had at her age. He could leave the alimony payments and baggage from his defunct marriage. He had colleagues and work friends. He had mates that would play footie with him on the weekend. He had a pain in the arse ‘Consulting Detective’ that brought endless chaos and absurdity to his life. And Christmas was a time to be grateful for all of that. And one way he liked to express his gratitude was with acts of charity.

Greg always had a family he adopted through the church. They gave him the ages of the kids, names of the parents, something resembling a wishlist. Of course everyone got everything on their lists. They got more than that. Of course… Ellie had started taking over part of the shopping and wrapping for the kids. It had always seemed the least they could do.

He also liked to spend a bit of time in the soup kitchens. He didn’t mind work. And maybe he knew a few of the patrons. He could never tell what was sadder, seeing the same faces every time, knowing they were still sleeping rough, bouncing between shelters and caps, and maybe struggling with the same demons that plagued them a year earlier; or not seeing them there, and realizing it wasn’t because they’d turned their life around, or landed a job, or managed to land on better times, but because things were worse or they weren’t well enough to even be in the shelters. But making sure people had warm food and a place to sit without worry for a few hours was a good use of his time. Ellie agreed. And she’d taken to joining him on weekends.

“Hey, Shane,” Greg gave the young man a genuine smile. “You keeping your nose clean?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Greg gave him a generous portion of soup. “If you need to, after New Years, I’ve a mate who runs a shop over round the way. You go see him, yeah?”

“What kinda shop?”

“Cars.” Greg winked. “I know you know how to make them run.”

Shane flushed. “I don’t do that anymore, Sir.”

“Well, Ollie is always looking for people who know their way around an engine. Keep it in mind.”

“Yeah, ok.”

“Good man.”

Ellie flashed her father a grin when Shane was out of ear shot. “He stole your car, didn’t he?”

He raised both brows innocently. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. And it was Anderson’s.”

Ellie giggled. “Damn, I’m out of rolls.”

“Language.”

“I’m going to grab some from the kitchen, back in a tick.”

Greg watched her leave and sighed. He really was spoiled with a good kid.

“Get back here, you little shit!”

He started and spun around, glaring into the room as his stomach twisted uncomfortably. It was a busy enough room, multiple full tables, people eating and chatting, plates and cutlery clacking. It was a dart of red, someone moving too fast to be casual, and Greg headed for what he hoped wouldn’t be trouble. Hoped… But he knew otherwise.

It was a kid. A boy, no more than eight, ducking under a table to put distance between himself and someone much bigger, much older, and much drunker than he was. Greg stepped between them, squared his shoulders, and leveled the man with his best cop glare. “Sir, that’s enough.”

The man squinted blearily back, then grunted and tried to step around him.

Greg was faster, placing himself directly in the man’s path. “No. I think you ought to sit down.”

That earned him a poke in the chest, “Get out of my way.”

Greg shook his head minutely. “Sit down, or go walk it off. Those are your choices.”

“What’re you supposed to be, a cop or sommat?”

Greg pulled out one of his warrant cards. One of the best things that came from Sherlock’s messing was that he had about five tucked into every coat he wore. “As a matter of fact-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. The man grabbed the nearest folding chair, threw it - uncoordinatedly - at Greg, and ran for the door. Faced with the option of chasing him down or looking after the kid, the kid was going to win. It took a minute for him to find the boy, tucked under one of the empty tables. Greg squatted down and tilted his head, “Hi.”

The kid watched him, but didn’t respond.

“God, I’m getting too old to do this.” He groaned as he shifted to sit cross-legged on the ground. “Have you gotten dinner?”

The kid shook his head.

“Ah, right. Do you like butter with your rolls?”

That got him a nod.

“Ok. Don’t go anywhere.” Greg stretched his arm and turned to get Ellie’s attention. She seemed to know what was happening well enough to bring a tray with a full dinner on it. “Ellie, my new little friend here is a bit shy. Do you think you could sit with him for a moment while I make a call?”

“Sure, dad.”

“What do you think?” He addressed the kid. “You can eat under the table or at the table, whichever you want.”

The kid inched away, but popped up on the far side of the table. “Kay.”

Greg smiled. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He headed out through the kitchen, around the back where he could make a call in private. “Hey, Sandra, you working today? Thank God. Look,” he scratched at the back of his head. “I have a kid here, clearly got a few knocks from his guardian, he’s scared, and definitely needs a safe space. Yeah. Could you? Amazing.”

Twenty minutes later, he ducked back out of the room and out around the back. He felt… shaky. Maybe a bit sick. Christ, this was Christmas. No kid deserved to be hit and dumped at Christmas. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Are you smoking?”

He almost tried to hide the cigarette, almost. “Don’t tell your mum.”

“Can I have one?”

Greg sputtered and coughed for a moment. “Absolutely not!”

Ellie grinned. “Then put it out and let’s go home.”

“Yeah, alright.” He took one more drag, then sighed out the smoke and stubbed the cigarette out on the wall.

“You ok?”

“Hm?” He paused. “Yeah. Fine. Yeah.”

“Then can I get a hug?” Ellie held out her arms.

“Course.” He wrapped his arms around her.

“That… makes me sad. Poor kid.”

Greg kissed the top of her head. “You’re a good egg.”

“I try.”

“I know.”

~

“Sir?”

He raised a brow and watched as she waited for him to finish his phone call. “Yes, Anthea. What can I do for you?”

“It’s the fifth today.”

“Ah, of course.” He opened his desk drawer and removed a chequebook. “We donated on behalf of the Department last year, did we not?”

“We did.”

“You are more adept with these things. Same amount this year? Or are we due an increase?”

“Perhaps an increase of five percent?”

“Perfectly reasonable.” He filled out the cheque and signed it.

“Very good. And the leadership has asked if you intend to participate in their busking for charity.”

Mycroft recoiled. “Again? Do they have no dignity?”

“Apparently, they’re willing to do just about anything for a Christmas cause.”

“They are willing to do anything for a vote.” He replaced the chequebook and closed his desk drawer. “I will do more for charity by appropriately designating monies where they’ll be most beneficial. An hour’s salary donated could be more effective than an hour of my time spent as a voyeuristic, holiday, volunteering tourist.”

Anthea smiled. “But they would so love your kind words.”

“Out,” Mycroft couldn’t help the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.


	6. Satsumas and Sacks

Greg Lestrade shook his head and pulled his hands from his pockets, tugging the satsuma out and tossed it back and forth between his palms for a few minutes. It went a long way to bring a bit of circulation back into his fingers as he paced. Thinking. He was thinking. Running through it again. He wasn’t focused. It was a bad night to be distracted. It was dark. It was cold. It was… He couldn’t actually tell if it was fog or rain or… You know what, it didn’t matter. It was gross. The damp bit at his cheeks, nose, and ears; and the wind was doing something disturbing to his hair. Hat. He needed a hat. Keep his head warm. Keep the thoughts on the inside. He hadn’t slept well last night. Restless. Creeping bad dreams. And then this.

He sighed again and blew out his cheeks. He was hungry too. Of course he was hungry. He’d been awake for almost forty hours if he thought about it, and probably hadn’t eaten in… It was too hard to do the math anyway. Well. He had the satsuma. He was outside the cordon. It wouldn’t really matter. He dug his thumb into the rind and slowly peeled chunks of it away, creating a small biodegradable confetti pile at his feet. Splitting the fruit into sections was easy. And with the first burst of tangy sweet on his tongue, he felt… better. Damn it was cold.

Gloves. He needed a hat  _ and _ gloves.

He ate another piece and tucked it against his cheek, sucking the juice out slowly. He took a long, deep breath and let it out his nose, then gave a nod. Right. Gloves. Hat. Somewhere without shite weather. And no more sleepless nights. That’s a great fantasy. But first, he’d have to deal with this. Fix this. Focus for more than a minute. Right.

Ok. Right.

Shit. He was going to have to call Sherlock. God dammit.

The sound of someone politely clearing their throat made him jump. He spun around, “Shit.”

“My apologies, Detective Inspector.”

He shook his head. “No. Sorry. I was…” He waved a hand. Off with fairies? Jesus. He blinked. “Sorry… What… Can I help you with something?”

Mycroft raised a brow. “Apparently not.”

Greg snorted. “No. God forbid.”

“That was,” Mycroft tilted his head. “You mistake me. I expected he’d be here. Already.”

“I was going to… call-I…” Greg rubbed his free hand over his eyes.

“You haven’t slept.”

“No.” He heaved a sigh and turned back to squint at the scene. He broke off a piece of the satsuma and held it out absently. “Satsuma?”

Mycroft eyed him carefully. “A satsuma?”

“St. Nicholas Day.”

“Ah.”

“Did ya leave your shoes out last night?”

“Did I…”

“See, that’s why you don’t have a satsuma of your own.”

“I fear you are, perhaps, over-extended.”

“You don’t like St. Nicholas?”

“I am much more in support of Krampus.”

"Krampus?!"

"You cannot tell me that the idea of a goat demon stuffing Sherlock in a sack and absconding is unappealing."

Greg snickered. “You’re a Scrooge.”

“And you are delirious.”

Greg sobered. “I am.”

“Should you not… Rest?”

“Probably.”

“I rather insist.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“My brother will be along shortly.”

“Oh good. Donovan will love that.”

“Sleep, Detective Inspector.”

“Put your shoes out. You too might get a satsuma.”

"I have a bag and a stick. I don’t need a satsuma.”

Greg burst out laughing. “Krampus,” he muttered, walking away.


	7. It's Fruitcake Weather!

Lestrade shouldered his way through the door and nearly stumbled into the bullpen, multiple bags draped over his arms and weighing him down.

“Alright there, Boss?” Sally called.

Greg grinned. “Donovan, excellent. One for you.” He nearly dropped five of the bags as he dug into the nearest and produced a merrily wrapped rectangle. He set it heavily on her desk.

“Sir, no…” Sally groaned.

“That time of the year,” Greg winked and started setting similar packages on each desk in the bullpen.

“Boss, you do this every year. It’s criminal.”

“And you’ve yet to arrest me!” He started whistling  _ Here Comes Santa Claus _ as he got closer to his office.

“One of these years, I swear to God,” Sally threatened. “Where do these even come from?”

“Maybe I sit at home, slaving over the oven to make these for you. Every year.”

“If that’s true, I’ll have you committed.”

Dimmock paused next to his desk, his coffee halfway to his mouth. “Is this a brick? Lestrade, did you wrap bricks for everyone?”

Greg flashed a toothy smile, “Tastier than a brick of coal, I promise.”

“You could build an indelible fort with these, Sir. It’s disturbing.”

“Talk to my Aunt Millie. I would never tell her anything other than ‘People adore them.’” He switched to  _ Rocking Around The Christmas Tree _ as he finished with the room.

Erikson poked the package. “Is this safe, Donovan?”

“No. It’s highly flammable.” Sally moved her brick to the back of her desk. “Call the ATB.”

“ATB or arson?” Erikson tilted his head. “I seem to remember enough rum that I was half drunk just smelling one last year.”

Johnson picked up his present and hefted it from hand to hand. “I’m going to use this for weight training. Can I get another?”

“Take mine,” Peters heaved hers at Johnson. “It’ll break my bag if I try to get it home.”

“Oh, Boss?” Sally called.

Greg stopped whistling, his hand on his office door. “Yeah?”

“Freak and friend are on your couch.”

The smile faded from his face. “Who let them in?”

Sally shrugged. “Does it matter? They’ll just break in if we don’t open the doors.”

“Right.” Lestrade sighed, squared his shoulders, and headed into his office. “I’m not giving you a murder for Christmas, before you ask.” He could hear Donovan snicker as he shut his door.

“Why on earth would I want a murder for Christmas?” Sherlock bristled.

“You ask me for one every year. It’s becoming a habit.”

“Perhaps my faith in holiday magic has faded.”

John snorted into his shoulder. “He means Happy Christmas.”

“Do I?”

“You do,” John insisted, then gestured to the decorations. “And I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Are those fruitcakes?” Sherlock interrupted.

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. “Maybe.”

“Can I have one?” Sherlock held out a hand. “Please?”

“Please,” Greg frowned. “Why? What are you going to do with it?”

“I hear passing on fruitcakes as gifts is a tradition of sorts.”

He pulled one of the remaining blocks from a bag and hesitated. “You’re not going to light it on fire, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock blinked innocently. “Hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Oh God, I’m giving you ideas.” He reached out to hand it over and pulled it back again. “You’re not going to throw it through a window like you did that one time?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “Regifting in the most traditional of senses. No burning or airborne means. I won’t even change the wrapping.”

“Ok…” Greg gave him the fruitcake. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Oh please. Look who you’re talking to.”

“I am.” He crossed his arms.

“Here,” Sherlock tossed him a Terry’s chocolate orange. “These are far more palatable.”

Greg looked at it for a second, before a wide smile stretched across his face. “I love these! Ta!”

“Merry Christmas,” Sherlock smiled back.

“Happy New Year,” John added.

Lestrade laughed.

~

Mycroft paused, eyeing the package on his desk. “Anthea?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“What in God’s name is that?”

She raised a brow, and lowered her mobile. “Your brother was here. He left it for you.”

Mycroft startled. “Left it. Is it safe?”

A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “While I rarely associate your brother and the word safe, I assure you it passed through security without incident.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“I am.” Her heels clicked as she made her way to the door. “Tea?”

“Thank you.”

He settled at his desk. The package was rectangular, though not perfectly angled. Softer than a box. Rounded at the corners. Smaller than a bread box. Roughly the size of an average brick. Block of peat. He dismissed both. Wrapped in festive paper, cartoon elves holding candy canes and boxes in bold jewel colors with metallic glints of confetti. It wasn’t a particularly adult pattern, nor was it wrapped by a steady, neat hand. So likely homemade. With caution, as if the package might explode or ignite or bite, Mycroft picked it up between his thumbs and forefingers. Heavy. Really quite heavy. And spongy. He rolled his eyes, carefully placed the package on the far corner of his desk, and pulled out his mobile.

**_Why have you left a fruitcake on my desk? - MH_ **

The response was nearly instantaneous. Clearly, he’d been waiting for the message.

_ Why not? - SH _

**_I did not realise we had reached that point in the season. - MH_ **

_ Fruitcake for the fruitcake. - SH _

Mycroft sighed heavily. Never let it be said that his brother couldn’t cut to the bone without mincing words.

_ John has assured me that it is tradition to regift fruitcakes. Consider this a secondary gift from Lestrade. He is terrifyingly committed to the holiday. - SH _

**_There is no conceivable way that Detective Inspector Lestrade made this fruitcake. Wrapped it, perhaps. - MH_ **

_ If nothing else, it’ll be a festively flammable paperweight. - SH _

**_Is it edible? - MH_ **

_ You’d have to ask him. No one in NSY seemed particularly keen to consume one. It may not be advisable. - SH _

**_I prefer mince pies. - MH_ **

_ Perhaps too much. Don’t forget to thank Lestrade. You could always give the fruitcake to Mummy. - SH _

**_Perish the thought. Do stay out of trouble. - MH_ **

_ Tis the season ;) - SH _

Mycroft set his phone down, recognising the end of a conversation in as much as his brother was capable. Anthea set a fresh cup of tea next to his elbow. “Would you like a plate and knife?”

“Why would I want that?”

“Are you not sharing the fruitcake?”

Mycroft snorted. “Good Lord, attempting to eat that hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“I have it on good authority that there is an ample amount of rum in it.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe after meeting with the Prime Minister. Rum soaked fruit is best left for the evening, is it not?”

“Of course.”


	8. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

Greg Lestrade couldn’t sing. Not really. He wasn’t bad with a guitar. And punk rock music was in his wheelhouse. But singing, really singing, like the kind of gorgeous vocals you’d hear in a proper choir concert; not his range. But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Sure, God gave you the gift of music, give it back loudly. Except sometimes… Sometimes, he just wanted to listen. The acoustics were just perfect, and the voices were so lovely, and the music just that right shade of churchy, and it would make him shiver. He didn’t sing then. He would listen. And feel. And just soak it in. 

Christmas had a lot of that kind of singing; the sit quietly, listen, and shiver with the chords kind of music. But also, a lot of the sing drunkenly, tunelessly along while drinking alcoholic flasks of cocoa and serenading your neighbors kind of music. And Greg loved both. There were three major music events that he was loathe to miss: Lessons and Carols at Kings, whatever panto was on at King’s Head in Islington, and the annual Met busking on Oxford Street. He might be a DI, but he wasn’t above shaking a bucket to get better stab vests for his people.

About five years previously, he’d come down with an awful flu, and even though he was feeling better come the second week in December, Greg had completely lost his voice. He spent two days with a vow of silence. Then another two where he could do little more than whisper loudly, and painfully. Then three days feeling like he was going through puberty again, his voice cracking and squeaking anytime he tried to express an ounce of emotion or volume. The only good thing that had come of it was the amount of paperwork he managed to get done with the  **_KEEP OUT - PLAGUE ISOLATION_ ** sign hanging on his office door. Worst of all, he absolutely couldn’t sing without his voice going hoarse for a few hours. It left his voice with an extra gravelly element for a long time following. It was also the year he “quit” smoking… Mostly…

More than anything, the Christmas season was equally likely to find Greg at home, making dinner and dancing with the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, singing along to Bing Crosby, humming along to Sufjan Stevens, or absolutely belting it out to the Pogues. Because at the end of the day, Greg Lestrade was a bit eclectic, rough around the edges, and punk rock at heart.

~

Mycroft Holmes was a traditionalist. He’d been raised in a house with mandated, formal music training. He’d never had the taste for violin as his brother had. Temperamental instrument; dramatic. It suited Sherlock. It did not suit Mycroft. Nevertheless, classical music was the way forward. And given the length of his fingers, even when he’d been young, coupled with an innate, metronomic timing, and manual dexterity, he’d taken to the piano like a fish to water. Functional, versatile, and reliable with the capability to be melody, harmony, and rhythm, it was an instrument that suited Mycroft down to the ground.

To this day, he kept a beautifully restored,  Bösendorfer, baby grand in his sitting room. An eidetic memory, the ability to sight-read, and a well tuned ear, led to Mycroft finding the practice of playing relaxing. It occupied just enough of his necessary, functional memory that intricacies of work would unspool, and fall in line neatly, while he played. But he chose to adhere to classical music. The incredible and revolutionary composers who began with the piano before creating the orchestral arrangements. Modern piano did not hold his interest. And dear Lord, musicals were horrendous. They were used as a form of punishment in the Holmes household, because for whatever senseless reason, mummy seemed to like them.

Christmas seemed to draw together the best of classical music with the worst of musicals. The consistent droning of ‘Holiday Music’ that assaulted the ears in every public space for the two months leading up to Christmas itself encroached upon torture. Pop music, Christmas ballads were grotesque at best, and a crime against music at worst. And people singing it ought to be sent to Execution Dock. Pity that had gone out of fashion.

Mycroft Holmes did not sing.

Not ever.

He did not sing, and he certainly did not hum.

And there was no one alive to contradict this fact.

Out of all of this, one of the highlights of the holiday season was the London Philharmonic Orchestra’s production of Handel’s  _ Messiah _ . Even better, the odd year is was performed in the Royal Albert. Forgiving the crowds of people for the perfection of the acoustics, it was possible for Mycroft to attend, sit in a discreet location, and indulge in one of the most masterful compositions of all time.

It was, of course, a formal event. Black tie. Traditionally, he would extend an invitation to Anthea - she enjoyed classical music as well, and was deserving of a night out, generally speaking, at any given time. If she was unavailable, Mycroft preferred to go alone. His brother would use an invitation as a point of contention and ruin the evening somehow. His parents wouldn’t enjoy it as much as a musical, and he absolutely did not want to encourage a reverse invitation. Any other invitation would be viewed as a political statement. So this year, Mycroft attended on his own.

After nearly three hours of excellent music and two glasses of moderately decent champagne, Mycroft replaced his coat and gloves, and began his walk towards Kensington Gardens. There was, virtually, no way to have a driver meet him at the Royal Albert without drawing undue attention. Besides, the air was crisp and dry, and once he’d cleared the bulk of the concert crowd, there was less press of people, and he could relax. And he was relaxed, until he recognized a face, likely to see him any moment, unavoidable at this point, walking towards him.

There were not enough distractions to prevent recognition. And Mycroft swallowed back a frown as he noticed that the Detective Inspector was not alone. In fact, the man had his arm slung, rather comfortably, around the shoulders of a woman. A much younger woman. Too young. Not his ex wife. Goodness, she was young. Almost distastefully so. And Mycroft could only pull his shoulders back, and affect an air of disinterest as Lestrade looked up. And grinned.

“Ay, Mycroft!”

“Detective Inspector,” he nodded politely, stopping off to the side of the walkway. Etiquette demanding a small conversation.

“Greg. Please.” His eyes lit up as he noticed the formal wear beneath Mycroft’s coat. “You coming from an event or something?”

“The  _ Messiah _ . A tradition of sorts.”

“Ah, lovely. I try and get to that every few years. Hard to squeeze in, though.”

“Of course. And yourself? And…” He paused, making a point of silently requesting an introduction.

“Oh, God. I forget there’s people you don’t actually know. Ellie, this is Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is my baby girl.”

“Dad!”

His arm squeezed around her shoulder affectionately as he winked at her. Proud. He was proud of her. Now that Mycroft looked, he could see the resemblance. Something in the shape of her jaw, the way she smiled - broad and comfortably, and her eyes. There was absolutely no mistaking the relationship, and Mycroft instantly regretted his previous reaction. Whatever it had been. Rude, potentially. He smiled and extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Eleanor.”

Greg turned his face away to hide a chuckle at the use of her full name; it didn’t work. “We are off for a celebratory cocoa in the Winter Wonderland.”

“And what are you celebrating?”

Greg turned towards Ellie and raised a brow. She blushed feigned interest in something in the region of her shoes. He spoke at her rather than Mycroft, “Just the best school Nativity ever performed!”

“Oh, do tell.”

“The director here has earned a toast!”

“Dad, stop.”

He was more than proud of her. Greg clearly adored his daughter. Suddenly, Mycroft felt like he was intruding. “Congratulations, my dear.”

Ellie seemed to rally and met Mycroft’s gaze. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Dear Lord, she was like her father.

“If you’re done your concert anyway, you should join us.”

“I’m sorry?”

Greg grinned. “You. In your fancy tux and all. You should come have a hot cocoa. I hear you can even get them to put some alcohol in it.”

A walk through Hyde Park. A shared holiday beverage. A Christmas village. It all seemed… No. It would be intrusive. Too intrusive. Far too… “I’m afraid my evening is far from over. There are a number of matters that need my attention before I can truly relax.” The corner of Ellie’s mouth started to draw back in what Mycroft had previously identified as Lestrade’s knowing smirk. “I must request a raincheck.”

Ellie glanced at her father and back at Mycroft. “Pity.”

She was dangerous. Mycroft instantly decided that Eleanor Lestrade must never meet Anthea Beaudelaire. Never. “Some other time.”

“Oh, ‘course,” Greg cut in easily. “Ellie, did you know that Mycroft practically runs this country.”

Mycroft raised a brow sardonically. “That is a gross exaggeration.”

“I bet if you asked, he could do literally anything.”

“Horrible misrepresentation. I’m a public servant like-”

“You should go to the Met Christmas Extravaganza,” Ellie interrupted.

“What?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Ellie blinked at him, a mocking picture of innocence. “My dad puts on the biggest Christmas blow out every year.”

“It’s just a holiday party.”

“You should go.”

“I…”

“Don’t listen to her, Mycroft. She’s being silly.”

“I’m not,” Ellie stated. “And I’d bet your holiday bonus that Mr. Holmes has nothing better to do that evening.”

“Ellie.”

“The holiday season is rather unfortunately over-committ-”

“Are you busy on the nineteenth?”

“Ellie, leave Mycroft alone.”

“Regrettably…” He struggled for an excuse. “I have meetings that evening. If only it-”

“Well, good thing it’s on the eighteenth.”

Mycroft froze. Lestrade was frowning at Ellie, who was smiling prettily at Mycroft. “I…” Bugger. Eleanor Lestrade would have to be placed on a watch list. That, or he’d have to find a job for her. Friends close, enemies… “I shall have to add it to my diary.”

“Great!” She grinned. Lestrade looked poleaxed. “It was really nice to meet you Mr. Holmes.” She stuck out her hand and shook his with purpose.

“It was my pleasure. I’m sure.”

“Sorry,” Greg shook his head and seemed to come back to the conversation. “Look, you don’t have to. You’re more than welcome. I’d love to have you… There. I mean. Of course. But I understand if you’re busy.”

“I’ll look into it.” He needed to leave. He needed to walk away, before he was roped into something else equally traumatic. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Oh, we will!”

“Ta. Night, Mycroft.”

“Good evening.” He started down the street, working hard to keep a level stride. Somewhere over his shoulder he could hear the tail end of the conversation.

“Ellie, what on earth?”

“Happy Christmas, dad.”


	9. Christmas Doesn’t Come From a Store

Greg Lestrade loved surprises. Well, he loved happy surprises. There were, of course, a number of surprises that were quite disliked. Working in the Violent Crimes division, he knew all about the bad type of surprises. And his ex-wife had been rather good at the whole devastation shock and awe campaign. Hell, his father had led his education in sucker-punching. In spite of that, perhaps because of it, Greg really loved the child-like suspense and ultimate joy of gift giving. Good surprises. Loving surprises. And he was equally elated to be the source of a surprise as to receive one. Overall, Christmas offered so many opportunities to be the source and recipient of happy surprises, that Greg was absolutely in his joyful and slightly mischievous element.

The key to a good surprise, of course, was either suspense or complete lack of knowledge. So a gift had to be totally unexpected, like the time he’d managed to get tickets for the Women’s football, Olympic quarter-finals. Ellie had fallen off her chair in shock. Of course, that was the summer when she was in a cuff and collar for breaking her collarbone, and Greg had worried that clumsiness was a family trait. Regardless, it was a gift given out of nowhere. Not for a birthday, not for Christmas, not as a congratulations, maybe a bit in commiseration for the injury. And Ellie had no idea it was coming. And her absolute delight was priceless. Otherwise, a gift had be known about.

The impending gift was a Greg Lestrade special. He was brilliant at alluding to and misleading when it came to presents. He’d wrapped pictures of gifts so as not to give away their size. He’d last-minuted something to be delivered on the day of a celebration. He’d certainly wrapped the engagement ring in a box, inside another box, inside a shoebox, inside a box that the pressure-cooker had come in. Maybe the reaction to that style of surprise was a harbinger of things to come. But Greg loved to pick just the right thing and see the look of excitement on his loved one’s face when they realized what they’d opened. It could make his year.

Equally, Greg liked to be surprised himself. He was not a big fan of the wishlist - it led to disappointment when not fulfilled or when that was all you received. It was more fun when people put some thought into it. Or just saw something and were reminded of you. He knew he was more invested than most people, but it didn’t stop him from enjoying the hell out of a good surprise. And yet, there were people who just didn’t want to be surprised.

“Tell me what you’ve got.”

Sherlock dropped into chair as Greg circled his desk. “His friends are correct. There’s no conspiracy; he was depressed.”

Greg sighed. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“It’s the truth,” Sherlock insisted. “What… What is that?”

“Hm?”

“That.”

“Oh,” Greg picked up the wrapped gift sitting on the edge of his desk. “Gregson!” He called. “Did you leave this here?!”

“NO!”

“Hm…” He picked it up and looked at it. “Oh. Christmas pressie.” 

Sherlock frowned at him.

“Looks like…” He flipped the tag. “Oh, it’s from Sanders. That’s nice.” He shook it and held it up to his ear.

“Lestrade, that’s not how…”

“Sounds like…”

“I could tell you what it is.”

“A fresh set of pants.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “You are incorrect on so many levels.”

“A new bag of marbles?”

“Lestrade, please.”

“I lost mine.”

Sherlock groaned. “I’m done helping you.”

“You’re not.”

~

Mycroft Holmes hated surprises. He full on despised surprises. There was, the odd time, that his brother could still manage to catch him unaware. And of course, he could never surprise mummy. But it was in the fine print of his job and a personal point of pride that it was impossible to surprise Mycroft Holmes. Granted, his experience with winter temperatures and layers of ice was unexpected. His brother’s progress while in university was disappointing and then completely revolutionary when he met Dr. Watson. The election of the current PM was horrifyingly unplanned. No, Mycroft associated surprise with displeasure. And overall, if he could happily avoid surprise going forward, he would be rather satisfied. Unfortunately, Christmas seemed to be a time where other people were obsessed with surprises. And more specifically, springing those surprises on him.

The key to avoiding surprises, was of course to have complete knowledge of all things at all times. There was no such thing as suspense in his life. And gifts were to be avoided at all costs. Mycroft could see them coming from a mile away, and they were always disappointing. Sherlock often gifted him with the occasional disillusionment - these were not considered actual gifts. And packages, gift-wrapped, tied up with ribbons were all suspect. Mycroft knew what was in them before he even touched them.

When it came to gift-giving, Mycroft was meticulous. Each was carefully selected, chosen with purpose, artfully presented, and gifted at exactly the right moment. Gifts were a tool. Some were a surprise to their recipient, and such was the goal. A gift from Mycroft Holmes arrives at your office and it means one thing, arrives at your home and it means something else entirely. Mycroft wouldn’t always take credit for his gifts either. Afterall, how do you take credit for avoiding an international incident if it never occurs in the first place? You’re very welcome, Your Majesty. And of course, when it came to his brother, it was important never to be seen as giving a gift, for that would be soundly rejected. If, however, he stumbled upon it, seemingly of his own accord; or should an unknowing flatmate hand it over with an air of mystery, then it may be grudgingly accepted, though  _ never _ attributed.

When it came to Mycroft’s attention that someone had purchased a tangible gift for him, he often sought it out, observed it, recognised the thought and purpose, and countered appropriately - whether that be with a gift in return or otherwise. Should one opt to conceal a gift until an aforementioned time, he would often contrive of an opportunity to find it. Yes, Mycroft Holmes was a peeker. He would sneak a look. Absolutely eradicate any potential surprise. It was an excellent tactic that he’d perfected as a young boy, and no one could actually hide a gift from him.

But then, not two years ago, he had stood at the edge of a crime scene, patiently - outwardly patiently - waiting for his younger brother to finish his dramatics, when Detective Inspector Lestrade had sidled up next to him, lit a cigarette, and offered his pack.

“Apologies, Detective Inspector. I don’t smoke.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade had hummed. “Neither do I.” He blew out a long plume of smoke.

“Quitting not in keeping with the holiday?”

“The holidays aren’t meant for self-restraint.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “Is that why you allow this?” He gestured to his brother, currently walking literal circles around a few of the Yarders.

“Oh yeah.” Lestrade grinned and ashed his cigarette. “Also, Dimmock lost a bet and this is his punishment.”

“How desperate.”

“Got his case solved.”

“Mmn.”

The shouting had started. Perhaps one of the techs and one of the sergeants, and of course, Sherlock, beaming in the middle of the pandemonium he’d created.

“Oh boy,” Lestrade took a definitive drag then dropped the cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. “That’s my cue.”

“A thankless job, I assume.”

“You don’t assume.” He flashed him a wry smile. “Oh, before I forget, or I suppose, God only knows where you’ll be between now and Christmas,” he tugged a relatively small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his coat. “Happy Christmas, eh?”

“I…” Mycroft accepted the box. “I… am afraid that I don’t…” He blinked, watching the brilliant grin stretch across Lestrade’s face.

“I think I actually surprised you!” Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“I…”

“It’s just a present, Mycroft. Saw it, thought of you.”

It’s a lovely fountain pen, his brain supplied. Not a known brand. Nothing austentatious. Found in an antique shop and brought back to working order. “T-thank you.”

Lestrade looked beside himself with glee. “Y’re welcome.”

Greg Lestrade was an agent of chaos.


	10. It Isn’t Just a Day; It’s a Frame Of Mind

Greg was sitting at his desk, making good headway on some overdue paperwork. It was the biggest misconception other people had about his job, and his biggest disappointment in the same - he spent the vast majority of his time, as a Detective Inspector, sitting at his desk and filling in forms. It wasn’t glamorous or exciting. It was head-wrecking tedium and sometimes, he wondered if he’d get paid time off, workman’s comp if he sprained his hand signing crap. Then again, they’d probably just give him a literal rubber stamp for a signature and tell him to write with his left. Not like they were drowning in people.

In his defense, Greg Lestrade was proud of his work. The attention to detail, which he actually paid - thanks so much, Sherlock - and proper understanding of the rules and regs was why so many of his cases ended successfully. Sure, “solving” a crime helped. But what good was it to figure out the who dunnit, if you couldn’t actually hold them accountable? Proper warrants. Proper procedure. Dotting all the I’s. Crossing all the T’s. That was as much his job as walking a beat or staring at crime scene photos. And he was reasonably good at it. He wasn’t  _ neat _ about it. His handwriting was a messy scrawl at this point, but he could put his hand on any piece of hidden paper in the piles in his office in five seconds flat. He knew where the shit was. Organised chaos.

“Boss?”

“Donovan.”

“There’s something you need to see.”

He groaned and dropped his pen on the stack of papers he’d been working through. “Not another one. We’re way over quota for the month. Can’t Gregson’s team take it?”

“No. It’s an email.”

His brow furrowed. “An email? Why are you excited about an em-Ooooooh.” He knocked his mouse to wake up his screen. “Wonderful!”

Donovan grinned. “You wanna know who I got?”

“Absolutely not!” He opened the email and a wide smile stretched across his face. “Oh, oh, excellent.”

“Excellent? Who’ve you got?!”

He clicked the email closed. “Nuh-uh. It’s Anonymous!” 

~

“Anthea?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“What on earth is this?”

Anthea raised a brow. “This?”

“This email. What is it? Why have I received it? How on earth has it been delivered to  _ this  _ email address?”

She passed behind him, pausing to read the email over his shoulder. “Ah.” She returned to the far side of the desk. “As it has appeared in your diary that you’ll be attending the Violent Crimes Division of New Scotland Yard’s holiday party, I felt it would be well within my purview to enter you into the associated ‘winter anonymous gift exchange.’”

“The what?”

“Winter anonymous gift exchange. As I understand it, you receive the name of a person who will also be in attendance, and you are to purchase a gift with less than ten pounds.”

Mycroft set his jaw.

“You wrap it and leave a tag on it, and during the party, everyone gets their gift. Whether you own up to being the giver or not is traditionally at your own discretion.”

Mycroft glared. “It’s a Kris Kringle.”

“Kris Kindle.”

“It’s a Secret Santa,” he said flatly.

“Non-denominational and fully inclusive.” Anthea feigned innocence. “Of course.”

“Why?” Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes, the twinges heralding a migraine forming somewhere behind his left brow. “Why would you believe I would even consider engaging with such a tradition?”

“It’s a component of the party, Sir.”

“It’s optional.”

“It would be considered rude-”

“I will hardly be staying-”

“To attend empty handed-”

“For the duration-”

“Now that you’ve received a name.”

“Of the party.” He steepled his index fingers and pressed them to his lower lip. “Anthea.”

“You have already been issued a name. That person will be forced to go without should you decline participation.”

He gave her a long look. “Have I offended you in some manner?”

“Offended?”

“Slighted you? Mistreated you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then…” He spread his palms flat on the desk. “Dear God, why?”

Anthea smiled. “I think you ought to open the email.”

“Go away.”

“Might be pleasantly surprised.”

“Get out.”

“It is, afterall, Christmas."

“Anthea… out.”


	11. O Tannenbaum, Wie treu sind deine Blätter

When it came to Christmas trees, Greg Lestrade considered himself a connoisseur. An aficionado of sorts. Not that he would pick the biggest, best looking tree. That wasn’t the secret. You needed a tree that fit your space. That could hold your decorations. That matched the aesthetic of your life it such a way that it could be a center-piece for everything, not the sole focus of attention.

He tended to get two trees. One for the sitting room, the ‘proper’ tree for presents and ornaments and lights. This one would would be decked with multicolored fairy lights, because the color made him think of being a kid again; then, if they got around to it this weekend, and managed to make rather than eat, there’d be the popcorn and cranberry garland as well; then the ornaments, souvenirs from holidays, gifts from friends and family, the annual small picture decorations Millie would make from Ellie’s school picture, a few fancy bobbles, as many as the tree could take really; then the angel on top. 

The angel was particularly special. It was porcelain and fabric, held a candle in either hand and had a lovely halo, and the skirt, halo, and candles lit up with the fairy lights on the tree. Ellie had picked it out. And he’d spent a decade lifting her up and steadying her, so that she could set the angel just right at the top. After all the moves and shuffling of belongings and bartering for memories, he was surprised he’d managed to keep it for so long, and in good condition. But it was the first thing he’d pack away every January, carefully wrapped, secured in a specific spot in the decorations box. And it was the last thing he’d unwrap, waiting for Ellie to put it at the top of the tree.

The second tree was rarely seen. It was a small tree that sat in his bedroom. He spent enough time in there that without some sort of decoration, it felt empty. Plus, he liked the smell of pine. An empty bedroom devoid of anything Christmas almost made him nostalgic for the studio he and Tori started off in… Almost. It wasn’t actually something he wanted to go back to. Because it was often a very small tree, it couldn’t really hold much in the way of decorations. He’d sling a few twists of colored fairy lights around it. IKEA had a small string of lights that normally fit it perfectly. Rather than an angel or a star, he’d tie a gold and silver bow at the top.

One year, he’d tried bobbles on it, the poor thing had bent over. He’d laughed so hard he’d cried, and that was the year Ellie was introduced to  _ A Charlie Brown Christmas _ , so that she’d know why it was so funny. The fact that it was nicer than most trees he remembered as a small child was something he didn’t want her to understand.

He often left the lights on that tree running all night. A small Christmas nightlight.

~

Mycroft Holmes spent very little time away from the office.  _ The Office _ . He had three in London alone, only one of which he really considered ‘His Office.’ And while the majority of his time was spent in ‘His Office,’ he was often required in the other office, or the other other office for meetings, for discussions, for vague threats and anonymous negotiations that could not and would not be associated with ‘His Office.’ Besides, most of those people didn’t deserve to know where ‘His Office’ was.

When he wasn’t in ‘The Office,’ Mycroft was often in his ‘Home Office.’ It was a den of sorts. Lovely wood paneling. Large partner desk - though not shared, God forbid. Functional, wood-burning fireplace. Couch. Armchair - just the one - again, he wasn’t sharing this space. Dry bar - essential really. A very large, very well hidden safe - he didn’t leave any work out of it, not even his laptop at night. It was a decent sized room, though not overly spacious. It was almost cozy… Almost. It was, most importantly, comfortable. Because deep down, Mycroft Holmes was a very rational creature of comfort.

The ‘Home Office’ as with ‘His Office,’ was filled in with things that met Mycroft’s specifications exactly. The chairs behind the desks, the sofa, the carpets, they all fell just shy of the austere persona he put forward. Because if Mycroft was to spend every waking hour in these places, he would, at least, be comfortable in them. The remainder of his house might be less comfortable. Bleak, Anthea had once said. But sure, he was never in the kitchen. He rarely cooked. He was hardly home at any meal time. No, the only two rooms that looked remotely lived in were the home office and the bedroom. And No One else was privy to the second. And it was far more pillowed and cushy and snug than anything anyone would associate with Mycroft Holmes.

And they never would.

This evening, when Mycroft pushed into his home office, he took a deep breath and sighed. They had lit the fire before he’d gotten home, which made the room warm and bright enough that he only needed the desk lap. He set his valise on his desk, gently draped his jacket around the back of his desk chair, and poured himself a brandy.

This evening, in the predesignated space, near the edge of the window, but definitively far enough away from his desk and shelves, the Christmas tree had arrived. Arrived, been settled and decorated, and was now glowing a crisp, warm, white color. Mycroft did allow a Christmas tree in his home office. It had to be six and a half feet tall - what was the point in having a tree that was shorter than yourself? It had to be full, but fit in the allocated space - he couldn’t have needles brushing his desk, honestly. And the decor was exact - soft white fairy lights, cream and gold ribbon, star on top. No bobbles. No garrish colored lights. Absolutely nothing that made noise. This way it was peaceful.

So this evening, he could sit in his armchair, read the last of the reports, sip a glass of brandy, be warmed by the fire, and content with a beautiful Christmas tree, glowing peacefully by the window. It was indulgent. He was aware. But after all, it was Christmas. And he quite liked the smell of fresh pine.


	12. Thoughts of Joy and Hope and Cheer, But Mostly Shopping Shopping Shopping

Greg Lestrade was an excellent Christmas shopper, if Christmas shoppers had no strategy and zero organization. More than anything, he had an idea of what he might want to get a person, but left it open to the impulse purchase that often gripped him at the oddest of times. He could be seen popping into a bookshop because one of the book covers caught his eye. He was prone to noticing odd mugs and pens at the novelty store and knowing exactly who needed  _ that _ this year. And he was an absolute devil for street fairs and sweet shops for stocking stuffers and 'just because' gifts. He still would make a point of purchasing his first idea as well.

Most of the time, he'd pop out on his lunch break, if he could. Or there was the one day off that he'd do the Big Shop. Or there was the odd store next to a crime scene that would grab his attention. Or the bizarre decoration he came across when he was getting petrol.

Maybe this was why everyone was pleasantly surprised by his gifts… So was he.

Sure if he were more organized, maybe strategic about it, he could make a proper list, pick things up when they were on sale, shop around for a deal. But really, that didn't fit into his schedule as easily as the spontaneous shopping. And he didn't want to not get something just because it wasn't on sale. It was a bit impulsive. He probably spent a bit too much money over the course of the month. But it was Christmas, and there were worse things he could be doing with his money.

~

Mycroft Holmes avoided shopping as a general rule. He, more specifically, avoided considering shopping after December first. Afterall, nearly half the country seemed to relocate to central London. And the noise and chaos created was more than enough to give him a migraine. Not to mention the impact on the already dire traffic. The gridlock that often resulted had, on more than one occasion, driven him from his customary vehicle and forced him to complete a section of his commute on foot.

It said a great deal about the state of the roads that he was willing to walk. In the crowds. The people. He never should have agreed to meet at their offices. He should have demanded they attend one of his side offices. Or the club. Instead, he was fighting against the Christmas crowds on Regent Street. Absolute nightmare. And there were children. Masses of them. Hords. Shouldn’t they be in school? Rather than running through traffic? Good Lord.

His pace stuttered as one of the aforementioned children nearly took him out at the knees, and he was forced to step back sharply. “What on earth-”

“Mycroft?” A hand landed on his arm, steadying him momentarily.

“Detective Inspector.”

“Afternoon.”

Mycroft collected himself, straightening his shoulders. “Forgive me, I didn’t expect…”

Greg grinned. “Expect me?”

“Not entirely, no.”

“Can’t say I figured you for a Hamleys man too.”

Ah. That would explain the volume of children. How had he failed to notice? The noise did seem louder. “Too?”

“Oh, I uh…” He hefted a bag and shifted it out of the way. “I was just in that nonsense. Careful. It’s pandemonium in there.”

“Lawlessness abides,” Mycroft offered.

“Well,” he shrugged. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“I would have thought that Eleanor is rather old for,” he gestured at the store.

“Oh, it’s not for her.” Greg shifted. Distracted? He looked distracted. “We tend to sponsor a few families through the church. And it’s nice to get them some stuff that’s more than what they need. You know?”

Mycroft gave him a long look. “I see.”

“You don’t. But it’s nice of you to say.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft raised a brow. “I don’t attend a church. But I understand the sentiment.”

“A Holmes and sentiment,” Greg scoffed.

“Oh dear.”

“Christmas miracle!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.


	13. Oh It Doesn’t Show Signs of Stopping

“How’s the paperwork coming?”

Greg rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck side-to-side. “You know it’d be better if you’d taken that stabbing.”

“Yeah,” Dimmock nodded, sipping his coffee. “But then, you gave me that murder knowing full well who came along with it.”

Greg huffed. “He’s good for numbers and tolerates you. Eventually you’ll have to get on with him.”

“I have to do no such thing. Anything interesting on the cards?”

“Just some holiday robberies.” Greg wrinkled his nose and turned towards the window. “Oh!”

“Oh?”

“Snow!”

Dimmock frowned. “Snow?”

“Yeah!” Greg grinned at him. “It’s snowing!”

“Christ, the drive home is going to be shite.”

“C’mon outside for a sec.”

“You’re going outside in that? What is wrong with you?”

“Hey,” Donovan appeared at the door, shrugging into her parka.

“Something up?” Dimmock looked hopeful.

“Up? Yeah. We’re going across the way for hot chocolates.” Donovan tilted her head towards the door. “Right, boss?”

Greg was sliding his arms into his heavy coat. “Absolutely.”

“Wait, wait.” Dimmock set his coffee down on Lestrade’s desk. “You’re going out for cocoa  _ because _ it’s snowing?”

“Of course,” Donovan stared at him like he’d said something incredibly stupid.

“Yup,” Greg gave him a boyish smile. “Wanna come too?”

“N-no.” Dimmock scooped up his mug. “No thanks.”

“Your loss,” Donovan sighed.

“Back in a few.” Greg led Donovan towards the lifts, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “This is good snow. It’s the sticking kind.”

“The kind that packs well?”

“Probably. Yeah.”

“Think there’d be enough of it to make a snowball?”

“If we take long enough. Why?”

Sally blinked innocently. “No idea.”

“You can’t throw it at Anderson.”

“What?”

“Not again, anyway.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She was clearly dreaming of it.

“Sally…”

“What?”

“At least, not  _ IN _ the lab this time.”

~

Mycroft stood and shifted silently away from the desk. He was only linked via audio, they wouldn’t notice. The conversation had drifted beyond tediously dull into the inane category. It was increasingly apparent that no one was of a mindset to actually accomplish anything with these negotiations and none of his gentle nudging was bringing the lack of debate to a head. Shy of announcing that no one could leave until they sorted themselves out, this was going to be a horribly unproductive endeavour.

Anthea slipped into the office and carefully set a fresh cup of tea on the edge of his desk. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement and thanks, picking up the cup and taking a sip. It did wonders for the dull throb forming vaguely behind his left brow. He sighed into the tea cup, closed his eyes, and tried to adjust his posture to relax his shoulders. It took a moment, but he felt more collected.

When he opened his eyes, he spared a glance out the window and paused. It was snowing. He blinked. Snow mid December wasn’t unheard of, but he hadn’t heard that snow was predicted. It was the wet, heavy, white flakes that would blanket the city in a short amount of time. It would be clean and peaceful for all of a few minutes before it was turned to brown mush under the wheels of vehicles. But for a moment, the city would look rather picturesque. He took a small step towards the window, caught in the idyllic wistfulness of the first snow of the season.

Then the PM started speaking. Rather loudly. About absolute nonsense.

Mycroft clenched his jaw and returned to the desk, interrupting the prattle firmly. “I feel rather strongly that continuing to pave the roads will be the most beneficial course of action for the country as a whole.”

It was going to be an incredibly long afternoon.


	14. The Wrapping Is Different; The Gift Is Still The Same

Greg Lestrade enjoyed doing things by hand. Maybe it was the hard way, but he always felt there was value in the effort. The best gifts come from the heart, not from the store. It’s the thought that counts. Good things come in small packages. Tradition and effort, made with love. The manner of giving is worth more than the gift. And always wrap the gifts yourself. So the fruitcakes from Aunt Millie, all of them; and the knick-knacks for stockings, no matter how awkward; and the toys going in the Church holiday toy bin, with age appropriate labels of course; and the big gifts for Ellie; and the small keepsake for Sherlock and John; and the thing he’d finally settled on for Mycroft Holmes; and the gag gift for the Secret Santa, or the winter anonymous gift exchange rather; all of these things were hand wrapped. He was willing to suffer the papercuts for the satisfaction it brought.

He had a system. Once he’d found, made, built, or purchased the majority of his presents, he would collect the different bolts of festive paper, the ribbons, an indecent amount of sellotape, the good cutting scissors, and the plastic lid to a longtime misplaced storage tub - so he wouldn’t accidentally gouge holes in his table… Not that he’d ever done that before… ‘Course not. Then he’d turn on one of the many Christmas DVDs, get a nice warm cup of cocoa, and settle in to wrap everything.

He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Every piece he cut was just a bit too long, or not quite perfectly straight. But a few extra pieces of sellotape could cover a large manner of sins. And he loved putting ribbon on the boxes, and the sound the scissors made as they dragged curls out of the ends. They never lined up, sometimes the ribbons split while he curled them. And once a year, he’d accidentally cut his thumb on the scissors. But it was worth it. When the third movie was done, and his cocoa was starting to taste more like the Baileys or Amaretto than the cadbury powder, he was normally faced with a pile of completed wrapping, scraps of paper, ends of ribbon decorating the floor like confetti, and bits of sellotape stuck to the edges of every flat surface within reach.

After the first year of employing his system, he added the very necessary step of a post-it on the bottom with the name of the recipient and a small reminder as to what was in the wrapped package. While Ellie had rather enjoyed the clumsily wrapped book on serial killers, Sherlock had been rather put out by the authentic Elsa scarf from Frozen, and John had nearly brained himself on the coffee table when he fell over laughing. No need to repeat that experience.

He was nearly halfway through the wrapping. Elf was on the telly. There was whipped cream on the cocoa, a generous shot of Baileys had been added, and he was ready to tackle the back end of the pile. He was in a good rhythm. And he hadn’t even cut himself with the scissors - the paper was a different story, but there was no need to mention that.

He startled when his mobile rang. He grabbed it off the table, answering it on auto-pilot. “Lestrade.”

“Boss.”

“Donovan? Tell me this is a ‘Come join me in the pub’ call not a ‘I’m going to ruin our day off’ call.” Donovan was quiet for a long time, and he heard more in the silence than any words could have explained. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah.” Donovan swallowed. “They need us in.”

“Right. I’m on my way.”

~

Mycroft Holmes despised leg work. He had spent his younger years slogging through things the hard way, and was, at this point, self satisfied by avoiding the hard way. His time was worth money; he was, essentially, paid to think. As such, wasting his time on menial physical tasks was technically, financially irresponsible. Beyond which, when he was too distracted, foolish things happened, most commonly in the form of his brother, though not unheard of in the form of a minor international incident - sometimes both, together. Thus, his time was far better spent considering his options, not reinventing the wheel. And when he could afford the best, he was incredibly unlikely to recreate a homemade version. Besides, he knew it was up to us to give ourselves the gift of living well. No one else would do it for you. 

Anthea had, at one point, introduced him to the website ‘Cakewrecks’ and, shortly thereafter, the concept of a ‘Pinterest Fail.’ They had recently found that unwinding with a glass of wine and an episode of ‘Nailed It!’ was quite enjoyable. There was a pleasance in a level amount of Schadenfreude.

When it came to the purchasing and giving of holiday gifts, Mycroft was infinitely careful and exclusively purposeful. What was it people said? If you receive a gift, don’t measure it? Ridiculous. There was nothing more expensive than a free gift. And much like the curried favors from the support of a nod during a parliamentary session, Mycroft used his gifts like political weapons. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, watch his hands.

Most of Mycroft’s gifts were paper, written elegantly on personal letterhead, folded neatly into cream colored envelopes of heavy stock. Signed, sealed, delivered at exactly the moment intended. If an item was too big for an envelope, it was secured in a box, made for purpose, then wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with red twine. They needed no card. The packaging was a calling card unto itself, and Mycroft never forgot or mistook to whom a present was going.

Like everything else in his life, Mycroft prefered his processes to be ordered and systematic. The London Philharmonic was allowed to play softly in the background, indicating this was a work task, though not explicitly work. Materials were garnered and kept neatly in a cart beside his desk. And at no time were scraps of paper or flakes of twine allowed to cling to his suit. A fresh cup of tea kept him focused on the task at hand. He prepared his gifts in order of importance, ensuring the most prominent were sorted first. Inevitably, Mummy and Daddy were minded within the first five. Sherlock often after the Queen. Anthea was first. No sense in letting her think she’d fallen in his esteem for any reason. She never did.

The finished products were a crisp pile of envelopes and packages, perfectly collected and stacked on the corner of his desk, ready to be sent with internal post or delivered by a variety of messengers. It routinely took two hours. Less if he was fully prepared. This year, he was nearly fully prepared. He had sorted gifts for the usual suspects, the important political players, the less important and non-political allies, and the necessary miscellaneous others. What he didn’t have, was a gift for Detective Inspector Lestrade. For the past four years, they had exchanged rather meaningless gifts. It was more of a tradition at this point. And Lestrade had managed to find something oddly relevant and strangely indulgent every time. It left Mycroft somewhat stymied. What do you get a man who thanklessly minded a chaotic sibling while working tirelessly for the police force? Not to mention the winter anonymous gift exchange limit of a few pounds. Especially when said gift need be casual to represent their quasi-work related relationship and yet express thought enough to be meaningful. He had already been regifted some fruitcake, for God’s sake.

There was a reason why Mycroft didn’t do sentiment.

There was a soft but firm knock on his door. “Come in.”

Anthea slipped through the door and stopped just shy of his desk. “Pardon the interruption.”

She didn’t have her mobile in her hand. Mycroft straightened in his chair. There was nothing more foreboding than his assistant without her mobile. “What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”

“Ah.” He clicked the music off. “Go on.”


	15. Keep Calm, Knit On

Greg Lestrade was never above making a fool of himself. And if he was making a fool of himself on behalf of someone he cared about, more’s the pleasure. Beyond which, he would do absolutely anything for his daughter. And when it came to the Christmas season, he spent equal amounts of time picking out small gifts for her, making her favorite foods, decorating the house, as he did trudging around grim crime scenes and filing his paperwork. It was a cheery close to each of his otherwise cold and occasionally miserable days. So if offered the opportunity to proudly express their united holiday cheer, he was there. He was there with bells on.

“Dear Lord, Lestrade, what’s on your head?”

Greg blinked innocently. “A hat.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s below freezing.” He tilted his head, the pom pom on the top tipped over with his movement. “Why do you wear hats?”

“I don’t!”

John snorted into the back of his arm, knowing full well why Sherlock harbored a deep suspicion of hats. 

“And that,” Sherlock frowned, “Is most certainly not a hat.”

“It is.” Greg grinned. “And it’s keeping my ears nice and warm.”

John coughed to hide a laugh. “Sorry,” he cleared his throat. “Think I’m coming down with something.”

“You should wear a hat,” Greg offered.

“John…” Sherlock complained.

“Don’t look at me,” he held up his hands.

“I think the cold has frozen his brain.” Greg winked at John. “Shame he doesn’t have a hat like this one.”

Sherlock let out a sound of disgust. “I would never… Why does it have strings?”

“So it doesn’t fall off if I’m running really fast.”

“John!”

John didn’t even bother trying to hide his laughter.

“Take that off your head. I can hardly take you seriously without it. Now, I can’t look at you.”

“Well, more’s the pity,” Greg blew his cheeks out in mock chagrin.

John doubled over giggling.

“John!” He gestured at Lestrade. “Can’t you talk to him?”

“Me? Why me?”

“You can be reasonably sensible?!”

“Oi! And I can’t?” Greg objected.

“Sorry,” John held up both hands and made an effort to contain his laughter. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Sherlock drew himself upright.

“Sorry… Greg,” John managed a serious expression. “I like your hat, where can I get one?”

“WHAT?!”

Greg grinned again. “Sorry, mate. This is one of a kind. Made with love for me especially.”

“Homemade?”

“Yup.”

“Who’s the talented artist?”

“John, stop.”

A soft smile spread across Lestrade’s face. “Ah, Ellie and I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Never stop.”

“John!” Sherlock stomped his foot and earned a side-glance from John and Greg alike.

“Christmas traditions.” Lestrade rubbed his gloveless hands together to keep them warm. “Ellie’s only allowed to give me something homemade. She gets around it a bit by purchasing the supplies, but for someone only new to knitting, I think she’s pretty good.”

“Is it early for presents?” John asked almost absently.

“Nah. We exchange little things as we go. She’s with her mum this year on the day.” The smile he gave was more of a wince. “So we have an arbitrary Advent calendar of gift-giving. I’m happy giving her something wrapped every time I see her.”

John hummed an understanding. “I’m impressed she found yarn to match your hair.”

Greg snorted. “Bite your tongue.”

“It’s a lovely tradition.”

“Oh, speaking of. Mulled wine at the Yard in a few days. You’ll be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss the ‘Winter Anonymous Gift Exchange’ for anything.”

Sherlock huffed, crammed his hands into the pockets of his coat, and spun on his heel, heading for the road.

“He’ll be there too.” John watched him storm off. “With bells on.”

Greg laughed. “God, I hope not.”

~

Mycroft Holmes was far too proud to make a fool of himself willingly. His public face, as much as he could be considered a public figure for how little he’d put his name on anything of import, was far more important than the man behind it. As such, anyone who truly cared for Mycroft himself, would not subject him public mockery. Particularly, if not especially, during the Christmas season. As if knowing full well the limitations of his power and influence, his family seemed, in a very un-Christmas way, hell bent on presenting him as the epitome of ridiculousness. And he made every possible effort to draw a line in the proverbial sand, or snow, as the case may be, to withdraw and ignore the holiday cheer. As per usual, his family was well intent on ignoring or blatantly crossing that line… With bells on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Mikey, please.”

“No. Mummy, no.”

“Put it on, Mycroft.”

“No.” He crossed his arms mulishly. “I will not.”

“Listen to your mother, dear.”

Mycroft glared at his father. Traitor. “Daddy, please.”

“You know how she gets,” he murmured softly. “And she has been working very hard on this.”

Mycroft tilted his chin. “The British government does not negotiate with terrorists.” He flinched as he was swatted with a dish towel. A dirty dish towel. Disgusting. 

“I changed your nappies, young man,” his mother scolded. “The least you can do is try on a homemade gift.”

“Gift?” he asked indignantly. “This is not a gift. This is a monstrosity. This is, if nothing else, a crime against fashion.”

His mother tisked. “It was made with love.”

He rolled his eyes. And got another smack with the towel.

“Your brother is wearing his.”

“He also chooses to rummage through skips in his spare time.”

“And he gets the first mince pie,” Sherlock mocked from the corner of the room, where he was hiding behind a newspaper… Eating a fresh mince pie. The glutton.

“I don’t eat mince pies,” Mycroft shot back.

“Not in public,” Sherlock hummed.

“Why are you even here? I thought you had a case on.”

“Boys,” his mother cut in. “Sherlock, leave your brother alone.”

“Ok, fatty,” Sherlock stuck out his tongue. His upper arm got a swat from the towel, but he quickly received a pat on the head.

“Mycroft, put your jumper on.” Swat.

He clenched his jaw. “Fine.”

His mother smiled. “There’s a good lad.”

Four minutes later, Mycroft refused to come out of the loo.

“Please, Myc. I just want to see you in the jumper!”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve made the sleeves two inches too short, the hem bizarrely too long, it’s clearly far too snug round the middle, and I can only describe the color as puce.” He frowned as the color of his cheeks edged ever closer to the shade of yarn his mother had mistakenly selected.

“Oh, just come out. Let me see.”

“No!” Mycroft grabbed for the hem. “I’m taking this bloody thing off and going home!” He tugged it up, managing to half wrangle it over his head. And promptly found himself stuck. He struggled, but it only seemed to make it worse. With one arm pinned up by his ear and the front of the jumper up over his eyes, he panted and wound up slumped against the wall. He was actually stuck. In the small, half-bath, in his parents’ front hall, he was twisted into a position a yoga instructor would envy, stymied by an ill-fitted, knit gift. 

At the very least, he could reach his mobile. He had deft fingers and excellent muscle memory. While the phone rang, waiting for the line to connect, he placed it on the counter and squatted to put his ear level with the phone.

“Sir?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Sir, if you’d speak up. You sound… distant.”

“How much extra holiday pay would be required for you to urgently arrive at my parents’ with a good pair of shears?”

“And, one might assume, absolute discretion?”

“Yes.”

“Is it your mother’s jumper?”

“It is.”

“She didn’t take my recommendations, did she?”

“She did not.”

“And you’re now stuck.”

“Please.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you cannot afford this course of action. You should ask your mother to set you free.”

“A week off.”

“I’m not at liberty to leave the office at present. Particularly given the current situation with the Americans. Perhaps your brother might help?”

“I am begging you.”

“Happy Christmas, Sir.”

The line disconnected. Very little could make this situation worse.

There was a loud rap on the door. Followed distinctly by his brother’s voice, “You’re upsetting Mummy. Just come out and let her see.”

Oh dear; there was one thing that could make this situation worse.

“Go away, Sherlock.”

“Why does your voice sound muffled?”

“It’s not. Now go away.”

“I can pick this lock in ten seconds. Just open the door.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

“Sherlock…”

The lock clicked and the door popped open. Fifteen seconds. He knew his brother had been lying. It was an empty victory. He heard the distinctive electric sound of an artificial shutter. Oh good, there’d be pictures. Maybe Mummy would put them in the annual Christmas card.

“That was fifteen seconds,” he mumbled through the jumper.

“I must be slipping,” Sherlock struggled to rein in his laughter.

“More’s the pity,” he replied sardonically.

“Well, all this family togetherness has left me feeling warm and fuzzy.”

“Doesn’t it.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Can’t wait.”

From the kitchen, he heard his mother shout, “Sherlock! Those are the good scissors!” Lovely.


	16. Through Other Windows He Had Looked At Turkeys

Greg wrapped his daughter in a massive hug. “Hey, Monkey!”

“Dad.” She squeaked with glee as he tugged her off her feet and spun her around.

“You’re nearly too big for me to be doing that.” He set her down with a groan and tugged on the pom-pom of her hat. “This one of yours?”

She grinned. “I had to practice first.”

“Well, it paid off.” He tapped the side of his head, which was warmly contained in the hat she’d knit him. “Now, are you ready for dinner with Millie and Pete?”

“I’ve been waiting all year for this.”

“Well, so have they.” He knocked on the door. “How’s your mum?”

“Is that your careful way of checking the mood she’s in?”

He flashed her a half smile. “You know as well as I do that the holidays put her on edge.”

“Greg!” The door flew open and Millie was on him in a flash. If she were a bit stronger, maybe a bit bigger, somewhat younger, he suspected she’d have lifted him off of his feet. “Oh, it’s good to see you!” She patted his cheek and turned to Ellie. “And you! Look at you! A fine young woman!”

Greg stepped back to let them embrace and to shake hands with Pete. “Uncle Pete.”

“Greg.” Pete’s free hand clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon in and tell me what’s new down at the Yard. And mind your head, the tinsel is hanging dangerously low this year.”

“Smells like Christmas in here,” Ellie closed the door and hung her coat.

“That’s the mulled wine,” Millie winked. “Come check on it with me.”

“Just one mug, eh, Monkey?” Greg called after them. “Yer mum will kill me…”

“Still tense on that front?” Pete asked.

Greg shrugged. “We get on when we don’t have to see each other. And Christmas has always been… tense.”

“You’re being kind about it.” Pete gestured to one of the chairs. 

Greg sat with a bit of a wince. “Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past Millie to rinse my mouth with soap if I didn’t.”

“She would.” Pete burst out laughing. “God, she would. You know we’d be happy to stop inviting Tori.”

“It’s Christmas,” Greg said carefully. “And she’s family…”

Pete raised a brow. “She’s a grinch.”

Greg snorted. “You’re a bad influence, Pete.”

An hour later, Pete was setting a platter of food on the table. “Alright, tuck in.”

“Tori, dear, will you start the salad.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Greg’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned, Dimmock’s team was on, there was little reason for the Yard to be calling. “Sorry.” He stood and connected the line, apologising again as he headed out of the room. “Lestrade.”

“Boss.”

“Again, Sal. I’m in the middle of dinner.”

“I… I know… I’m sorry. There’s a ransom note.”

“What?”

“Yeah, note delivered today. It’s real. I have it down with forensics now.”

“Jesus… “ He ran a hand through his hair and glanced back into the dining room, shooting Ellie a regretful look. “Ok, I’ll come in now.” He hung up the phone and braced himself for what he knew would be an argument. “Millie, Pete, I’m so sorry…”

“Oh, leaving are you?” Tori sipped her wine.

“It’s… It’s work.” He set his hands on Ellie’s shoulders. “Sorry, kiddo.”

“S’alright, dad.”

Tori rolled her eyes. “Lestrades… always abandoning their young.”

“Oi!”

“No? What exactly do you think you’re doing now?”

“It’s a kidnapping case,” he said flatly. “This isn’t something I can clock off of.”

“You’re never off duty with law enforcement. It’s par for the course,” Pete offered.

“You would defend him,” she snarled at Pete. “You cops always stick together.”

“Tori, please,” Greg murmured.

“No.” She pushed out of her seat and rounded on him, poking a finger in his chest. “You want to know why we didn’t work? Because you’d put everyone, anyone over your own damn family! You’ll drop everything for some random kid and walk away from your daughter, same way your dad did you!”

Millie sucked in a breath and stood, holding a hand out to Ellie. “Come along, Eleanor. I have a new nutcracker to show you.”

“That’s out of line,” he growled.

“These people aren’t even family!” Tori snapped. “Maybe if you at least shared some blood, he’d have bet some sense into you. Worked when you were little.”

Greg crossed his arms and glared. “That’s low. Even for you.”

“You’re as much my son as anything,” Pete set an arm on Greg’s shoulder and shook his head. “I think you ought to leave, Victoria.”

“Fine!” She stomped back towards the door and shoved her feet into her boots. “Elle! We’re leaving!”

Ellie popped her head out from the sitting room. “... mum…”

“She should stay,” Millie said calmly. “Finish her dinner.”

“Elle, now!”

“Cut it out, Tori,” Greg sighed.

“What do you care? It’s not like you’re staying here!”

“Tori…”

“And she still needs to pack. She’s as bad as you. Last minute everything.”

“Pack?”

“Oh,” Tori slid her arms into her coat. “Did I forget to mention? Dick and I are going to the Algarve for Christmas. And as it’s my year…”

“You… You’re taking her away for Christmas?”

“Mum, stop.”

Tori scowled at Ellie. “Fine. Stay here with these people. You better be on the eight o’clock train home tomorrow morning. If you don’t pack, you’ll go without.”

“Tori, you can’t just take her out of the country!”

“Oh, I’ll bet you won’t even make it home for Boxing Day.” She flashed a vicious smile, “Millie, Pete, it looks like Santa’s workshop exploded in your sitting room. Ta-ta.” She slammed the door in her wake.

Greg set his hand on the fame and sighed, slumping to let his forehead rest against the wood for a moment. Fucking great.

Pete patted his back gently. “Officially uninvited henceforth.”

Greg snorted.

“Well,” Millie shook her head. “I know someone going on the naughty list.”

This time Greg huffed out a laugh. “Millie.”

“M’sorry, dad.”

“C’mere,” he held out an arm and tucked her in for a tight hug. “That’s nothing to do with you. Alright?”

“What did she mean about… About your dad…”

Greg sighed. “Not tonight, eh? Do you want to stay here with Millie and Pete? Finish your dinner?”

“If I can’t give you your presents on Christmas day, I might need to gift them early,” Millie winked. Ellie smiled.

“How about I come get you in the morning? You can have an early Christmas tonight, and I’ll take you out for breakfast tomorrow before your train.”

“Yeah, ok.”

“I’m sorry,” he hugged her again. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“Go help that kid.” She grabbed his hat and held it out. “No one should be alone at Christmas, right?”

“Right.” He took her face between his hands. “You are a good egg.” He kissed her forehead. “Now don’t stay up too late, or eat too many cookies, or let Millie drink too much eggnog… Oh no, I’m giving you ideas.”

“I’ll keep them out of trouble,” Pete offered.

Greg flashed him a weak but honest smile. “Good luck with that.”

~

Mycroft neatly cut into the meat and took a bit. Chewing incredibly methodically. For a moment, he wondered if choking on an excellently prepared, medium-rare venison would be considered a rational cause for leaving the table. But then, choking in front of his brother would be ill-advised, and mummy would likely scold him for being overly dramatic. As if he were the overly dramatic one in the family. As if he’d selected the musical entertainment that had preceded dinner in Covent Garden. As if his younger brother wasn’t sprawled like a contortionist in the chair across the table. At least his father was level enough to maintain the conversation without riling the rest of the family.

He nodded politely as mummy prattled on about their planned cruise to return on Christmas Eve. Something about Fjords. Something about dancing. Something about the neighbors. Something about Mycroft preparing the house for Christmas. He coughed politely. It was the only way he knew how to cough, but he was far closer to actually choking on his venison - unintentionally.

“I’m sorry?”

“Of course, Dear. You’re the only one who will be available to turn down the house.”

“I… Will be working?”

“Nonsense. It’s Christmas. You’ve surely earned some time off. After all the work you do, and the number of times you’ve had to cancel...”

“I’m certain Sherlock could-”

“Can’t. Soz. I have plans in London.”

Mycroft frowned sharply. “I cannot be spared from the office.”

“Mikey, please.”

“Mummy…”

“You’ll do it, and that’s the last I’ll hear about it.”

“I cannot just-”

“You can.”

Mycroft would have gaped at her had his phone not rung loudly at that moment. He narrowed his eyes and exhaled sharply. Having expressed an adequate amount of displeasure, he excused himself and answered the phone on his way to a quiet corner of the corridor. “Yes?”

“Sir, I have some news.”

“If it requires my presence in the office, I can factually state that I rather don’t care what news you have, and I’ll attend in person to see to whatever situation has arisen.”

Anthea paused. “I see.”

“Does it?”

“Does it what, Sir?”

“Require my presence.”

“I could certainly handle it, Sir. If you wish to finish your dinner.”

“Anthea,” he warned.

“My apologies. This news is incredibly confidential, horribly complicated, I couldn’t possibly convey the direness over the phone. Perhaps you should return to the office and see to the problem directly.”

“That is quite enough.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Does it require my immediate attention?”

“It does.”

“Shall I forego the cheese plate?”

“It might be wise.”

“I see.”

“I’ll send a car.”

“Thank you.”

“Will I send a conciliatory gift for your mother?”

“Perhaps one for my father. He will hear of nothing else for the duration of their cruise.”

“I know of a lovely aged whiskey that needs a home.”

“Very good.”

“You will have to check on the house.”

Mycroft sighed. “I realize.”

“I’ll add it to your diary.”

“Very well.”


	17. Checkov’s Gift Is A Memory

The Violent Crimes Division of New Scotland Yard’s holiday party was in full swing. Gregson was in the middle of a horrendous rendition of  _ Jingle Bell Rock _ on the karaoke machine. There were festive, blinking fairy lights. There was holly and garlands and miniature trees and an obscene combination of moving and noise-making decorations. There were tables of wildly unhealthy treats and snacks. And there was a beverage station with a tablecloth that was legally intoxicated itself. People were dressed in bad holiday jumpers, antlers, bells, and lights making their own noise and glitter and chaos. The corner of the room housed a decent sized Christmas tree with a stack of gifts beneath it - the winter anonymous gift exchange ready to begin as soon as people were present. The mood was one of cheer and over-exertion with an intent to forget whatever woes the job had burdened them with and cut loose. And dead in the centre of it all, encouraging the festivities, was Greg Lestrade.

If he was inclined to be honest with himself, which he was probably a bit too drunk to be, he was over indulging for the sake of ignoring the gut-wrenching disappointment hanging over his current case with a missing kid at Christmas. The blow up at dinner the night before didn’t help anything, and the knowledge that his daughter was going to be off for the entire holiday and he might not see her until New Years was downright depressing. So Greg was hoping a bit too much liquor and definitely too many biscuits would brighten his mood and bring him back around to the holiday spirit.

It was not working as well as he’d hoped.

He couldn’t be mad about it. It wasn’t surprising. It was just… disappointing.

As the second shift filtered in and clocked off, it was nearly time to start the gift exchange. That always brought good-natured ribbing and some excellent laughs. Particularly when someone couldn’t possibly reveal the gag-gift they’d received. He’d give everyone a moment to get a drink and settle in, then he’d have to kick Johnson off the deck. Christ, that man could not carry a tune to save his life. He mixed himself a drink, mostly made of whiskey, and promised himself it would be the last one of the night. Steeling himself to transition the celebrations, he squared his shoulders, and headed for the miniature stage set up near the tree.

He cleared his throat and took the mic from Johnson, patting him on the back with a nudge off the stage. “Ok, thanks Aaron. That was a… It was a something, that’s for sure!”

People hooted, clapped, and Johnson went to find another beverage.

“I think we have enough people here to get going with the gift exchange.”

There was a round of cheers and Greg grinned. At least everyone else was in a celebratory mood.

“We can run it the way we did last year. Who ever gets their gift, gets to pull the next one. If you want to claim credit for what you gave, you can. If you don’t want to show off your fantastic piece of cheap junk, that’s fine.”

“Can we wear it?!”

“Please don’t!” Donovan called.

Someone whistled.

“Anyone breaking the law spends the night in the drunk tank. Use your horrible excuses for discretion and don’t make your friends work; this is supposed to be a party.” Greg pulled one of the presents from under the tree. “I’ll just get the chain started, so. This one goes for… Patel? Are you back yet?”

One of the new constable’s head popped up and he made his way to the stage to collect the small, awkwardly wrapped present. He didn’t hesitate to pull it open and proudly displayed a toy sheriff's badge and costume cowboy hat. “Yippie Kai Yea!” He made finger guns and a few shouts of ‘Mother Fucker’ came from the crowd.

“Alright, alright. Calm down.” Greg gestured at the tree. “You’re up Patel. Pick your next victim.”

“I’ve got one for… Donovan.”

Sally groaned and went to collect her salacious looking gift bag. She grinned good-naturedly and slid the red and silver boa from the bag and gave it a good twirl. It was met with wolf whistles and a hoot or two. “Yeah, yeah, keep it in your pants, lads.” She wrapped the boa around her neck and pulled an oddly heavy box out of the stack. “Oh look. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good God,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and he hefted the box up. “Lestrade,” he grinned, without even opening it. “You’ve outdone yourself this year.”

Greg shrugged. It had been one of his better ideas. Cheap, for sure. But it was so damn appropriate. Plus, it doubled as a gift for John, since it would keep the git occupied for at least a day. “You keep asking for a murder.”

“And you’ve given me five.” The amount of glee was nearly indecent.

“All cold.” He protested.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Creative.”

“Go on. Grab another out of there. Keep the show on the road, eh?” He was going to have to stay up here all night at this rate.

Sherlock selected a plainly but neatly wrapped box from the stack and handed it to John without bothering to look at the label. John checked it to be sure before opening it and promptly turned an uncomfortable shade of red. He quickly pulled an orange business card from the box and shut it before anyone else could get a look in. Sherlock stooped and whispered something in his ear, and John lifted the card in Sally’s direction. “Get out of jail free card?”

“You’re going to need it eventually, Watson!” She called back.

There was a round of laughter and John couldn’t help but grin. “Well, ta… I think.” Sherlock whispered something else and John shot him a smile. “If you’re sure.” He found whichever box Sherlock had sent him for and held it out to Greg. “Pretty sure this is yours, mate.”

Greg furrowed his brow. “Right. Uh… Neat.” He set down the microphone and took the box from John. It had his name on it, sure enough. Though he’d stake his career that no one in the Met could wrap a present so perfectly. He dug into the paper and revealed the back of a picture frame. He gave an internal shrug, sure, a frame was safe and he could probably use a new one. Then he flipped it over, still half wrapped, and froze. It… It was a… Frankly, it was a gorgeous picture of Ellie. He instantly recognised the school logo in the bottom corner. Must have been from the drama club, backstage. She looked so… Happy… He cleared his throat. Who… Now that he thought about it, who could have gotten that picture of Ellie, or asked her for it? Maybe Sherlock or John… But that was. Incredibly personal. “Wow. Ok... Um. Shit. New present. Uh…” He grabbed the first thing he could reach. “Uh, Peters? I know you’re… Somewhere… Ah, there!”

He handed off the bag as quickly as he could and made his to the back of the room. He needed a breath. The alcohol was probably catching up with him, and he couldn’t keep grinning just now. And his office would be quiet. Yeah, office. He could regroup in there. Take a good look at the picture. God he was getting sappy in his old age. He’d nearly made it out of the party room when he had to side step a wildly gesticulating arm that nearly caught him in the side of the head, and managed to collide bodily with someone else. “Shit, sorry.” He apologised before he’d even looked up.

“Entirely my fault, Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft!” he startled, flashed a surprised smile and tried to gather himself. “You made it! I thought maybe…” He shook himself. “Glad you’re here. I uh… I just was heading to my office to…” He half held up the partially wrapped picture and it clicked. The handwriting. The wrapping. The knowledge. The ability to ever procure it. Suddenly it wasn’t creepy that someone had gone and gotten a photo from Ellie. Or didn’t get it from her exactly, but managed to get one at all. It was… Sweet. Really. Thoughtful. Not at all something he’d expect from Mycroft Holmes. And… Greg felt a blush creep into his cheeks. “C’mon, you can hardly hear me over this music.”

It wasn’t a long enough walk to his office to be sobering. It should have been. God, he could do with a bit of sobering up if a picture was making him feel weepy and Mycroft showing up for the damn Christmas party was left him more unsteady than whiskey. He pushed the door open and gestured Mycroft in, shutting out the hoots and hollers from the party behind them.

It was a familiar moment, the pair of them, in his office, seeking quiet - either from the noise outside or to keep a conversation private. Somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to sit on the couch, opting for the safety of his desk chair. Mycroft settled into one of the chairs opposite and calmly took in the decorations scattered around the already cluttered space.

“I see you found the drinks table,” Greg tried. “Not everything there is… drinkable.”

“No,” Mycroft said slowly. “I rather suspect you could run small vehicles on a few of those liquids.” He lifted the plastic cup in his hand, which looked incredibly out of place, held in his elegant fingers. “There was, however, a decent scotch…”

Of course he’d be drinking the scotch. Greg leaned across the desk and tapped his cup against Mycroft’s. “Tolerable enough.”

“Quite.”

“Oh,” Greg finished stripping the paper from the frame he was still clutching rather idiotically. “Thanks for this.” He propped it up on his desk, next to the phone. It was a good place for it. His wedding photo had been there for a while, but he’d never had anything to stick in its place when he’d binned it, frame and all. “It’s… Where?... I mean. Yeah. Thanks.”

Mycroft absorbed the position of pride the photo had taken in the otherwise bargain frame. He would have seen the previous picture that had occupied the space, but he made no comment. “I had Anthea reach out to Eleanor. She seemed more than happy to provide an assortment of options.” He paused. “You’re thanking me?”

“Caught that, did you?”

Mycroft raised a brow. “I thought the purpose of the event was anonymity.”

Greg huffed. “Pen gave it away.”

“Ah.”

“Well, and other things.” Greg leaned back in his chair and grinned. “M’not an idiot, you know.” The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched and Greg wanted to make that a proper smile. He wondered if he could make him laugh. “Well, I am. Compared to you. But I do have my moments.”

“I never doubted.”

“No?” That was surprising in its sincerity. “Not even when I only had one shoe on, was covered in pond muck, and was shouting at your brother?”

“If shouting at my brother made one an idiot…” he trailed off, something much closer to a wistful expression flitting into the visible realm.

“I’d be a moron of the highest order?” Greg flashed a smile.

“What had happened to your other shoe?”

“As if you don’t know.” Greg bit his lower lip and shook his head. “The murder weapon was in shallows of a bloody duck pond.”

“And you have dredging teams for that, do you not?”

“Oh, we do. We also have posh twats that try to preempt protocol and forget that the bottoms of ponds are way deeper than they think.” He snorted; he couldn’t help it. “Should've left him there for a bit, let him think about his life choices.”

“I am afraid that hasn’t been a productive course of action in the past.”

Greg laughed. “No, probably not. And then John would have gone in there, and he’d have gotten stuck at least up to his knees. And he would have been way more… colorful with his comments.”

“Sherlock does not respond to chastisement from John Watson in the same vein as he does yourself.”

God, he didn’t really want to be talking about Sherlock right now. They always did this. Start a conversation on common ground, and keep to the safety of shared knowledge. Or wander off into vagueness and hyperbole. And here, Mycroft was actually having a scotch, and looked relaxed. And they were alone… “You mean, he goes and sulks, instead of robbing my warrant cards and slagging me off in front of my team.” There. It looked as if Mycroft was in danger of actually smiling; Greg pushed a bit harder. “I bet you do the same thing all the time.” 

Mycroft blinked. “Pardon?”

“You just do it in your head.” Greg nodded. “I bet you have some really good foreign swears you think really hard at me and my team all the time.”

Mycroft blinked harder as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“And how many times has your assistant actually been the one to rob my warrant card and plant it on Sherlock just to throw me off the scent?”

It seemed to click that Greg was being facetious and a curious smile stretched across Mycroft’s face. “Far too menial a task for Anthea, I’m afraid.”

“Do you delegate shouting at staff? Or will you do that yourself?”

Mycroft shifted. “Shouting? I would hardly have to raise my voice. A simple disapproving look is sufficient.”

“I’ll bet it is.” Greg straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders and neck to mimic Mycroft’s position. As unnatural as the bearing was for him, it was perfectly matched. And with devastating accuracy, he raised a chastising eyebrow.

Mycroft’s eyes widened momentarily and a startled laugh seemed to escape against his will.

Greg chuckled and relaxed back into himself. “See,” he picked up his cup and took a warming sip of whiskey. “Not pleasant when it’s focused at you.”

Mycroft echoed his movement, taking a sip from the plastic cup in a way that was dignified in spite of circumstance. “I didn’t know you were a mimic.”

“M’not.” He hid a smile behind the rim of his drink. “I’ve just had years to learn it.”

“Watching closely then?”

Greg flushed. Yes. Apparently. “I’m a copper,” he offered. “May be a bit old school about it, but I can read people. I’m good at people. Bit dim everywhere else. But people…” He trailed off, thinking about the dinner. Thinking about the divorce in general. Thinking about the way Sherlock had managed to tie him in knots and how he couldn’t figure out what Mycroft was thinking in even the broadest of terms. “Maybe I’m an idiot there too.”

Mycroft’s head tilted to the side. “Idiocy and passion are often intertwined, though far different animals.”

“That may be the nicest non-compliment I’ve ever gotten.” Greg paused, eyeing Mycroft. God the man was hard to read. Probably on purpose. Totally, actually, on purpose. It was why getting him a gift was so hard every year. “Oh, speaking of idiot. Hang on.” He pulled open one of his desk drawers and rummaged for a minute, coming up with a colorfully wrapped gift. “Happy Christmas.”

“I…” He turned the package over in his hands. “This is not in keeping with the spirit of anonymity or the price cap of your gift exchange.”

“No, I know.” He shrugged. “Didn’t actually have you in the draw. Had your brother actually. Gave him a stack of cold cases.”

Mycroft gave a nod of approval. “You gave him the Ripper case.”

“As a last resort. Oughtta keep him busy for a few days. No idea what kind of nonsense you’ll be getting from the...” He gestured at his door. “This is just a regular present.”

“I apologise, I have not…”

“Stop fussing. It’s like half of a silly thing that made me think of you for whatever reason. Why are you always so surprised by this?”

“Will I open it now?”

A slow smile stretched over Greg’s face. “Why not. Save me from going out there for a bit longer.”

“Not a fan of your own party?” Mycroft arched a brow as he carefully peeled the wrapping off. “I had it on good authority that you rather enjoy Christmas festivities.”

“I love Christmas,” Greg mumbled. “The party is one of the best parts of the year. Everyone looks forward to it.”

Mycroft paused. “And yet, you’ve sought the solitude of your office.”

“M’not alone though, am I?” Greg gestured around the office. “And there’s some decorations in here.”

“Some?”

“You should see my Aunt Millie’s place. It makes this office scrooge like.”

“No mistletoe, I note.”

Greg stopped, his cup halfway to his mouth. Mistletoe. Was that a joke? Clearly, Mycroft knew what mistletoe was for. But did he mean… Joke. Diffuse with humor. “It’s too poisonous to have just hanging about. It’s in my back pocket.” For a moment, he honestly couldn’t be sure if Mycroft was coming or going. If he’d crossed the line with a crass joke, and whatever Mycroft was about to say seemed stuck in the man’s throat.

“Noted,” Mycroft said finally, sliding the book from the pristine paper. He studied the Christmas Annual, silent for far longer than Greg was comfortable.

“It’s uh… It’s the Rupert the Bear Annual,” he offered. Lame, Greg, he can clearly read. “I used to, when I was a kid, I just really liked, it was... “ Mycroft was watching him again. It was the unusual, intense, study that left Greg feeling a bit hot under the collar. “Though you might like it too.”

Mycroft looked back at the book, stroking a hand over the cover. “It has been a long time since I’ve read one of these.”

Greg winced. Childish. It was too childish. But what the hell else was he going to get Mycroft Holmes? A tie? “It’s silly.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, yeah. Course.” Greg waved the acknowledgement away. “Any time.”

“No,” Mycroft hummed. “It isn’t anytime. It is always at Christmas.”

“What is?”

“When you surprise me, Detective Inspector.”

Greg blushed. It was instantaneous and out to his ears. Damn. “Yeah, well…”

“An oddity,” Mycroft mused. “Nevertheless. You have avoided answering my question as well. Another anomaly.”

“Question?”

“Why you have chosen to leave your party.”

“I…” Greg stopped. Something in the way Mycroft was watching him gave him pause. Why? He wasn’t in the proper Christmas spirit. Why? Because Tori… No… Well, yes, but that was almost expected. Because Ellie would be gone. Because shitty things were still happening. Because he couldn’t keep his family together let alone other families… Because he was failing right now. “Case,” he muttered. “I just…”

“Your inability to resolve a case has upset you.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah. Ta.”

“That was not a slight.”

Greg heaved a sigh. “It should be.”

“I assure you, the Bolger case is complex.”

“You know about my case? You know. Of course you do.” He rubbed his eyes. “Are you just watching this time? Or do you have a hand in this pie?”

“He is an ambassador. It would fall within my remit to pursue various avenues of investigation.”

“Remit…”

“It is uncommon for cases to unnerve you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why this one?”

“Why this one?” Greg’s face pinched. “It’s a kid, Mycroft.”

“I am aware. It is also not the first kidnapping you’ve worked with a young victim. Why this one?”

“Are you asking on behalf of the Queen and government?”

“I ask as an interested party.”

“Interested in what, Mycroft? If you’re here to pump me for information, you might as well go. I don’t have any.”

“Pump you for information?” The expression on his face made the words seem distasteful.

“You’re most of the government. What did I miss? Is his dad on the take? Or is it really about money? I swear, if you have CCTV of this that you aren’t showing me…”

“As much as it pains me to say, I am not omnipotent.”

“Christ, then there’s not a hope in hell for him is there?”

“You are rarely this unsettled.”

“Unsettled? Unsettled! It’s a bloody kid, Mycroft! And he’s… Alone and scared and it’s supposed to be Christmas!” Greg threw his hands up. “I don’t expect you to understand, but not all of us had it sunshine and roses when we were little! Or now. But what bloody use am I if I can’t help a single kid?!”

“You’re more intelligent than to tie your worth to the solving of cases.”

“Am I?!”

Mycroft remained silent, watching the heat color Greg’s face.

Greg closed his eyes and sighed. “This case…”

“May never be solved.”

He blanched. “Christ.”

“Or, the child may no longer be alive."

“Jesus,” Greg pushed back from the desk. “What the hell, Mycroft!”

“And we may find ourselves at war over the international fallout.”

“Stop.”

“Or it might put our citizens abroad at risk.”

“For the love…”

“These are but a few of the eventualities that I must consider. And I am looking into it.”

“Look into it harder.”

Mycroft raised a brow, staring him down easily. “I fear you misinterpret me.” He stood gracefully and straightened his jacket. “That is not how our relationship works.” He picked up his new Annual. “You do your job. I do my job. When a happy coincidence allows us to work in tandem, it is pleasant enough. But I have priorities above and beyond what you likely comprehend.”

“Oi!”

“I will not sit here and shoulder the blame for your team’s failure.”

Greg felt the blood drain from his face.

“Do your own legwork, Detective Inspector.” And with that, Mycroft turned on his heel and out of Greg’s office.

“Fuck.”


	18. Making A List; Checking It Twice

“Greg? You don’t normally come to our mid-week masses.”

Greg lifted his head from his forearms and forced a weary smile. “Michael. That was a lovely homily.”

He slid into the pew next to him. “Well, ta. Are you staying here for confession? Or just trying to get high off the incense?”

Greg snorted. “I never once got high off of incense.”

“And we never got our hands on those fake, weed tabs from DARE and left them in the thuribles either.”

Greg grinned. “Never. And there’s zero evidence.”

Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “So. You’re here. It’s a Wednesday. What’s eating you?”

“Ever have one of those weeks where you wish you were never born?”

“I’m alone with my thoughts all the time, Greg. Of course I have.”

Greg blew out a long sigh. “Bad week is bad. It’s nearly Christmas. And I’m just getting old.”

“You and me both.” He let the silence stretch. “I should lock up, but do you want to stay for a cuppa? Catch up a bit?”

“Yeah. I think…” He tapped his palm off the back of pew. “That’d be good. Can I help you cle-”

“NO! STOP!”

They were both on their feet and Michael was out of the pew and on his way to sacristy in a blink.

“Father! They’ve got the alms!”

Someone dressed like Santa dashed from the sacristy and Greg turned in pursuit, ignoring the shout from behind him. He’d only made it a few feet when pain exploded from behind his ear and he was out before he hit the ground.

~

Mycroft folded his hands neatly across the closed files. “That should be sufficient.”

“Excellent, Sir. Anything else? Or shall I call for your driver?”

“I have a few small issues to resolve before I leave. I won’t be leaving for another two hours. Though you may go.”

Anthea paused. “Sir?”

He raised a brow.

“May I enquire after your event last night?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

She pressed her lips together and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I see.”

“Quite.” Mycroft leaned back and opened his laptop, the soft hum as the monitor came on acting as a pointed end to the conversation.

Anthea paused halfway out the door. “Perhaps you should apologise.”

The door closed with a soft click before Mycroft could respond.

~

Greg groaned and blinked his eyes open. “Fuck.” It took a few minutes and a grumble or two to make it up onto his hands and knees. He shook his head slowly and squinted into the dark. It… It looked like the church. It had to be the church; he’d know the place anywhere. But there were no lights on. There were no people. The only illumination came from the street lights filtering through broken stained glass and dusty windows. He grunted and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the back of a pew to steady himself. God, did his head hurt.

He reached a hand up and tentatively felt out the growing lump behind his ear. His fingers came away tacky with blood and he blinked again. Christ, what did they hit him with. “Michael?” His voice echoed through the dusty space. What the fuck was going on?

It was cold enough that he shivered and he turned for his coat, only to find it missing. “Michael, mate, this isn’t funny!” He should get going. He should call this in. He reached for his mobile, but his pocket was empty. All of his pockets were empty. Fuck, his wallet, his phone, his warrant card, his keys… Fuck it, he had spare keys at the office. He’d just have to go back.

He fought age and disuse to shove the side door open and stumbled out into the falling snow. Outside, it looked… normal. London. Busy on a night close to Christmas. People. Children. The odd copper walking a beat. Helpful. He waved a hand to flag one down.

“Whoa, you ok there, buddy?”

He didn’t recognize them. But hell, there were so many new kids that joined up for a year or two, it was hard to keep track. “Yeah. I think… I think I was mugged?” He winced and held up his hand. “Just… Wallet, coat, keys, phone…”

“You get a look at him?”

He shook his head and hissed. “Bastard was dressed as Santa.”

“Right,” one of the constables shot the other an amused glance. “Actually hard to identify this close to Christmas. So many of the shops have ‘em now.”

“Do you want to make a statement?”

“Ta. Yeah.” Greg hung about as they waited for a panda car. Then rode quietly back to the Met. He was surprised not to know the receptionist. And without ID, she refused to let him past. “I was mugged,” he complained.

“Oh, you want to file a report. Hold on.”

God, could this day get any worse. Then he saw Sally. Thank Christ. “Donovan?”

The expression on her face was cold. Hard and cold. Something he’d only seen once or twice, and always directed at a violent criminal. She looked… not herself. “Margie, why is this guy hanging around?”

Ha. Funny.

“He wants to file a mugging report.”

Sally rolled her eyes, but waved him through. “You and everyone else. Hang on. We’ll just grab a seat.”

Everything was off. The desks weren’t arranged properly in the bullpen, the noise was worse, the coffee pot looked ancient, hell, the glass fishbowl of his office was missing, and there weren’t even Christmas decorations. A heavy knot twisted in his gut and he sank into the offered chair more confused and anxious than before.

“Right,” Sally pulled out a pad. “You say you were mugged?”

“Uh, yeah.” Greg furrowed his brow.

“Ok, name?”

“Name?”

“Yeah,” Donovan shot him a bored look. “We have to start your name, mate. It goes at the top of the complaint form.”

“You…” Greg squinted at her. “You don’t know me?”

“Your wallet was stolen, you’ve no phone, no ID, no keys, and you’re not hanging on our most wanted wall. No, I don’t know you. How hard did you hit your head?”

“I…” He looked around the room incredulously. “I don’t know what they hit me with, whoever it was came at me from behind.”

“You told Josephs they were dressed as Santa.”

“The one I could see… Yeah. But then someone hit me from behind.” He prodded at the lump again and instantly regretted it. It was still oozing a bit.

“Hang on. I’ll get you an ice pack for that.” She pivoted in the chair, sticking an arm up. “Oi! Timmy! Ice grab the first aid kit, yeah?”

Dimmock popped up from another desk, the sergeant chevrons clear on his uniform from across the room. Still a sergeant? He returned with the kit and set it on the desk. “Anything else, hon?”

Donovan’s face twisted. “Fuck off, Tim.”

“Did he just...?”

Donovan raised a brow, almost daring him to finish the question. “Here,” she held out an ice pack wrapped in paper towel. “So you didn’t get a look at the guy who hit you, and the other one was dressed as Santa?”

Greg sighed and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Sally set the pen down. “Look, I don’t know how much we can do here. Petty theft is pretty low on the radar right now. You might get a point or two up for assault, but you’ll need a doctor’s report for that.”

“Not exactly a case for Sherlock Holmes then?”

“Who?”

Greg looked at her. Really looked. She wasn’t joking. She was completely serious. She was serious and she had a scar wrapping around the outside of her cheek that he’d never seen before.

“Is he the new guy out of Sheffield?”

“I…” Greg shook his head.

“Only Sherlock I’ve ever heard of was that poor kid that ODed in Oxford a few years back.” She stopped. “Or maybe that was Caimbridge.”

Greg swallowed heavily.

“You alright? You’re not going to vomit on my desk are you?” Sally dug her rubbish bin out from under the desk and slid it in front of him. “You ought to get checked out, yeah? There someone I can call for you?”

“I…” Was there someone? Did he know anyone’s number anymore? Everything was stored in his mobile. Damn. “My uncle Pete used to work here… It was ages ago, but his number might still be on file.”

Donovan gave a nod. “Right. Pete…”

“McCarthy,” Greg finished. Uncle Pete… He’d… He’d have to…

“Not related to the McCarthy that had that MI a few years back?”

“MI?” Oh no.

“Yeah, you remember the story. Poor guy was due to testify on the case and they said it was stress…” Donovan trailed off at the expression on Greg’s face. “You really are about to vomit.”

“M’fine,” he muttered, standing faster than was advisable. “I’m… It’s fine.” He held up his hands. “I’ll… I’ll get a cab. I have cash at home.”

Donovan narrowed her eyes. “Keys?”

“Shit.”

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

Everyone in the room turned towards the shriek as a woman launched herself at someone in handcuffs.

“Ma’am!”

Two of the lads grabbed her by the arms and tried to pull her away.

“YOU LYING PIECE OF SHIT!”

“Ma’am, you need to calm down!”

Donovan groaned. “Again…”

“I KNOW YOU’RE FUCKING HER AGAIN!’

Greg frowned at the scene. He knew that voice. He… he knew that woman.

“Piss off with your crazy!” The man spat at her.

“Look,” Donovan pushed back from the desk. “I need to go sort this. Can you… Are you alright getting home? Mags at reception can call someone for you if you like.” She was already heading towards the fight.

“Yeah…”

Problem was, the fight was at the door. He’d have to pass by to get out. It wasn’t ideal. But the longer he sat there, the more surreal everything felt. He didn’t feel entirely confident on his feet. An odd vertigo settling with the unfamiliarity of his normal place of work. Everything was just wrong.

“ABSOLUTELY WORTHLESS!” The woman screamed.

Greg froze. He wasn’t more than five feet from her and he barely recognized her. “Tori?”

She rounded on him, snarling. “Who the fuck are you?!”

“Is he your side piece then?!”

Greg didn’t see it coming. It was a sucker punch of the highest order. And it was a double fisted swing that connected with the side of his face and he dropped like a rock.

~

Mycroft pressed his fingertips against his closed eyes and sighed. It had taken four hours. Four. It was unforgivable that he had missed it the first time, and punishable by death that he’d ignored it the second time. But now, he saw it. He had found the miniscule glimpse of a clue and it was a salve for his bruised ego.

He reached for his phone, fully intent on ringing. Sharing the news as close to in person as he’d dare. But he hesitated. Lestrade wouldn’t want to speak with him. Not after the way he had behaved. Personality and ego aside, this was relevant and significant information for an active investigation. Lestrade would answer the phone. But he wouldn’t like it. And Mycroft couldn’t guarantee that he’d actually listen.

Email. He could email, attach the relevant information.

And five minutes later, having completed the task, he sighed. It was an apology. Of sorts. It was as close to an apology as Mycroft would dare, and he could only hope that Lestrade would see it for what it was… Legwork.

His mobile rang and Mycroft answered it reflexively.

“Myc? Darling, just checking in.”

Mycroft winced. Deep down, he’d been hoping it was the Detective Inspector. Silly. It was nearly half ten. He wouldn’t be at his desk. “Mummy.”

“You’re going to have the house all warm and turned down for us?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, are you there already, dear?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I am in the office.”

“Oh, Mikey. Could you go a bit early. I’m terribly worried I left the immersion on. And the temperature is due to drop below freezing, and with the old pipes…”

Mycroft sighed and massaged his temple with his free hand. “Tomorrow, mummy. I will go tomorrow.”

“Oh, Myc. Thank you. Puts my worried mind at ease. And you shouldn’t be so late in the office. The world will turn without you sitting there with a hand on the spinner.”

Mycroft sighed again. “Yes, mummy.”

“Don’t drink all the scotch. And make sure you leave some of the Muesli for your father. You know how he gets when we travel.”

He closed his eyes. This was unnecessary. “I won’t and I shall. You needn’t worry.”

“I’m always worried about my boys.”

“Of course.”

“See you before Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“Ciao!”

~

Greg groaned and blinked his eyes open. “Fuck.”

“Sir, try to stay still.” The unfamiliar face of a young woman filled his field of vision. “Just stay where you are, ok?”

“Damnit,” he hissed.

“Hey, mate, you ok?”

“Michael?” He winced and brought a hand to his head, finding the lump behind his ear. “Jesus. Fuck.”

“Still in a church, Greg.”

“Sir, don’t try to get up yet. Please?” She looked exasperated. “Do you know where you are?”

He frowned up at the vaulted ceilings, the well lit nave, the smell of evergreen and incense. “Yeah, still in St. Ignatius. The hell did they hit me with?”

Michael held up a bible, his face pulling into a lop-sided smirk. “The Word of the Lord.”

Greg huffed out a laugh and groaned. “Little shits.”

“Sir,” the woman began again.

“Greg,” he interrupted.

“Right. Greg. Do you know what day it is?”

“Not my lucky one,” he muttered. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Good.”

“I think he’s ok, Muireann.” Michael set a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Struck down by the good news, but he’ll be fine.”

She gave Michael a brutal glare. “Blunt force trauma to the head. Loss of consciousness. Sure. Fine. Grand. I’m just a doctor. What do I know?”

Michael laughed. “I’ve known this guy for my whole life; he’s got a thick skull, and nothing is going to knock any sense into him.”

“Thought Christ was supposed to be a shield, not a weapon,” Greg grumbled, pushing up slowly onto his elbows.

“Talk to St. Theresa of Avila.”

“Greg here is much more of a St. Jude man.”

“Oi!” Greg objected. Michael grinned unrepentantly. “See if I try to catch your robber now.”

Michael kept a hand at his back as he made it to sitting upright. Muireann was watching him carefully. “You really ought to see a doctor.”

“I thought you were a doctor.”

She wrinkled her nose at the pair of them. “You two are impossible.” She pushed to stand and frowned. “Please go to the ED. Please make sure you’re not bleeding into your brain. Please don’t let me get struck off for not calling an ambulance right now. And please don’t show up when I’m on shift on Christmas day? That’s on my list for Santa.”

Michael stood and shook her hand. “Thanks, Muireann. I’ll make sure he does. Will I see you at the Christmas Eve Vigil?”

“God willing.” She gave him a wry smile. “Conked out by a bible… Everytime I think I’ve seen it all…”

“C’mon,” Michael held out a hand to Greg. “I think I mentioned tea before. And I ought to make you a cuppa if I’m going to put you to work.”

“Ta.”


	19. Merry Christmas, Gotham.

Greg buried his face in his hands. “Sal, please tell me you have some good news.”

Donovan sighed. “I’ve been over this a hundred times. It’s like they just disappear.”

“They can’t! No one disappears!”

“Boss…”

“This isn’t good enough.”

“Sir…”

“It’s not good enough, Donovan!”

She sighed again and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s late. If you want me to, I’ll sit here and go through it all again. But I’m telling you, they must have changed cars somewhere, because it’s nowhere.”

“It’s not nowhere,” he insisted. Goddammit, if Mycroft found this car in the first place, he could damn well follow it.

“Fine. It’s not on the grid. And short of searching every ramp and garage in the city, I don’t know where it is. Now, if you want, I’ll put a team together and start looking...”

Greg shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Are you going home?”

He frowned at her.

“You haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep for at least a week, and I doubt you’ve been home in the past two days.”

“There’s a couch here in my office,” he grumbled.

“Sir.” She dropped her reports on his desk. “You’ll be more effective if you sleep. And you know it.”

“Fuck off, Sal.”

“You’re normally more sensible than this.”

“There normally isn’t a kid. Missing. At Christmas.”

“We’ve handled kidnappings before.”

“It’s Christmas!”

Donovan glared at him for a moment. Then she collected her coat and shrugged it on. “It’s not Christmas yet.”

“I know.”

“Get some sleep.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m serious, Greg. You need to get some rest. You’re not going to be any good to this kid.”

“Sam. His name is Sam.”

She raised a brow.

He waved her out the door and planted his elbows on the desk, both palms on his forehead. The bullpen had gone quiet, it was that late. The night shift had settled in, and were working away, but the daytime chatter was long gone. Donovan was right. He knew she was right. He was getting tired and it was making him slow. The headache wasn’t helping, and the night he had didn’t equate to proper sleep.

If they hadn’t lost the car, maybe he’d be out there right now, driving Sam home to his family. Instead, they had no car, no kid, no clues. Again. Hell, even Sherlock had left to go home and think. He shifted his palms to rub the heels of his hands against his eyes. Kids shouldn’t be scared and alone at Christmas. It just wasn’t right.

He started as his office phone rang. “Lestrade.”

“Oh, great. Didn’t think you’d still be there, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”

He rubbed at his face. “I’m still here. What can I do for you, Al?”

“You guys put out a BOLO today, yeah?”

That had his attention. “Yes. We did.”

“I’ve got an unmarked, white van, tinted windows, with plates that match yours.”

“I… where?”

“Underground in Fulham. You want me to move on it? The thing looks abandoned.”

“No. Don’t. Send me the details, I’m going to have our guys pull footage. How’d you find it?”

“Someone reported something funny to the attendant. Only just got a chance to follow it up.”

“Al, if this pans out, you’re going to be on Santa’s good list for the next decade.”

Al laughed. “It’ll never happen. Call if you want me to do something.”

“Ta.” Greg disconnected the call and drummed his fingers against his lips. If they have the van, they might be able to find the next vehicle. They might be able to find Sam.

Thirty minutes of CCTV footage, two invaluable favors, too much overtime, and a cup of strong coffee later, Lestrade was in his car, driving out of London at speed. The graveyard shift was periodically updating him with new information and directions, but they had the car on the motorway, and at the tolls, and leaving the greater London area. He couldn’t be more than two hours behind them. And more than anything, a flare of hope had settled in his gut that they might just get this kid back.

The further out of London he went, the worse the roads became. Snow had blanketed the ground, leaving slick patches of hidden ice. The narrow streets and bends became darkly dangerous, and the ongoing snowfall made visibility poor. Then he received the call he’d been dreading. Lost track of the car. Last sighting in a small village. Still heading away from London. Greg groaned. He was nearly to the village, he’d stop by and check if anyone had seen the car. Maybe he’d get lucky. Even though he suspected most of the town would be shut up for the night.

He was relieved, for more than one reason, to see the petrol station was still open. He refilled his tank and headed inside to pay. The man behind the counter smiled. “Heya, in town for the holidays?”

“What gave it away?”

The man smiled. “It’s a small town. Known everyone here since I was small.”

“Oh?” He stuck his card into the reader and waited to punch in his pin. “I think some mates might have come through ahead of me. Any chance they stopped for petrol?”

The man shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“Rats.” He pulled his card free and tucked it back in his wallet.

“I mean,” he tore the receipt and handed it across the counter. “There was a pair of lads in a navy Passat that zipped through about an hour ago. But they didn’t stop.”

“Heading…”

“Yeah, that way. Those your mates?”

Lestrade grinned. “I think they might have been. Ta.”

~

Mycroft startled as the fairy lights on the tree popped on, a sudden colorful glow in the otherwise dim sitting room. A moment later, the white lights in the garland on the mantle were on. The artificial candles in the windows lit up. And given the change in light from the front room, he could only assume that there were decorative lights out front, now on, now advertising the holiday season. His parents must have put them on a timer.

He contemplated finding the timers and turning them all off. He didn’t like advertising that he was in the house, particularly when he was the only one there. Then again, what was more likely to draw unwanted attention? A well lit, holiday decorated cottage? Or a dark, empty house in the middle of nowhere? He could understand the logic, but he deeply suspected logic played no role in his parents’ decision to make every decoration come to life at once at seven in the evening.

With a sigh, he pushed to his feet and stretched, cracking his spine from where he’d hunched over his book for the past few hours. He picked up the now empty bottle of wine, gave it a quick shake to confirm the barren interior and paced into the kitchen to dispose of it. Whether or not it was ill-advised, he poured himself a glass of brandy to take to bed. He made his rounds, checking that the doors and windows were secure, before heading to his room. 

The old cottage had some central heating, but his parents had rather refused to update it, opting for extra jumpers and thick socks over the potential destruction of gutting the outdated system. As a result, all of the bedrooms had functional fireplaces. And he’d been glad for the foresight to start a fire in the hearth before dinner. His room was warm enough that he’d fall asleep comfortably, not shivering beneath piles of blankets, trying to build up nonexistent body heat. 

He paused at the bay window, watching the dark sky with orange tinge, the large, damp snowflakes collecting on the previously cleared footpaths. It was peaceful, if not foreboding. It would be a challenging drive for his parents when they returned. Then again, it was two days away. Plenty of time for the roads to be adequately cleared. It would be a challenge if he were called into the office tomorrow. And yet, if he were called in, it would give him ample excuse to avoid the remaining holiday frippery. Rock and a hard place? Lesser of all evils? Hard to say.

He drew the heavy curtains and made himself ready for bed. It was a bad habit, drinking as he was preparing to sleep, but one in which he rarely indulged, and he was feeling quite maudlin this Christmas season. What was one extra brandy at the holidays? He finished the drink, banked the fire, and tucked himself in for the night.

_ Mycroft? _

He was having the strangest dream.

_ Myyyyyyycroft? _

It was freezing cold. And breezy in the room. Snow falling from the ceiling to land on his exposed hands and cheeks.

_ Mycroft, wake up! _

“Gah!” He sat up in the bed with a start, collecting the blankets around himself to fend off the bitter air in the room. He could see his breath. That didn’t make sense. He’d closed the windows, the fireplace was still glowing with the last embers of the banked fire. Why was it so cold?

_ Ah, you’re awake. _

“CHRIST!” He tumbled out one side of the bed as a child climbed onto the other. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?!”

The child smiled. Then laughed.

_ Look at you! As if you don’t recognise me. You have one of the finest memories in the Western hemisphere and you’re clutching a pillow to… Hit me? _

Mycroft slowly lowered the pillow. It wouldn’t have been a terribly effective shield, nor was it much of a weapon. And now that he looked, really looked, of course he recognised the child. He knew that child like he knew the back of his hand. Which was rather intimately, as the child was him. He was the child. Or rather, it was how he’d been at perhaps ten years of age. Round, soft, and with a wicked grin. “I’m dreaming. That’s what this is. Just a dream.”

_ Is it? Odd dream to have, really. Do you miss your childhood so much? _

“Not particularly.” He stared at the child. At himself. Vivid dream, for certain. “Now would be a lovely time to wake up.”

His younger self grinned.

_ Would it? You don’t dream often, do you? _

“No. I don’t.” He crossed his arms. “Why am I talking to you? Me? Enough.” He pinched his upper arm. Hard. And winced. The apparition didn’t fade. The room stayed as it was. He remained exactly where he’d been.

_ Are you quite finished? _

“Are you?”

The child raised a brow and Mycroft frowned.

_ Would you like to know why I’m here? _

“Too much cheese and indigestion?”

_ Hardly. _

“Will you leave me alone and let me sleep?”

_ Perhaps. _

“Fine. Why are you here?”

_ Because it’s Christmas. _

“It’s not. Not yet. And I’ve too much to do before it’s actually Christmas. And sleep would likely be more productive than a fever dream of my childhood.”

His younger self smirked.

_ Christmas is a season. And you have well forgotten yourself. _

“Oh no,” Mycroft groaned.

_ Oh yes. We have a small trip to take. _

“What if I refuse?”

_ You are well within your rights. Though, consider that there is a good reason for me to be here. And as I am, frankly, you. You ought to listen to your psyche, no? _

“Small trip. Just a small one?”

His younger self nodded.

“And you will return me here. To my bed, where I belong.”

_ I will. _

“Undamaged.”

_ Unharmed. _

It was a small correction, but what perhaps would be an important one. Mycroft considered refusing for another moment. But, the more he thought about it, the less he liked the outcome if he refused. “Fine.”

_ Then take my hand. The night is young. _

Mycroft reached out and took his own young hand. And the room around him blinked out of existence.


	20. The Nightmare Before Christmas

The pulling sensation in his gut left him mildly nauseated as the rush of sound and color returned. They were stood in a familiar room; sterile and chaotic, with a stale holiday feel of illness and disappointment.

“This is…”

_ It is. _

“When?”

_ Half ten. _

Mycroft scowled. “When?”

With a look of exasperation, his younger self gestured to the television droning on in the background. BBC News. Half ten in the evening. And at least a decade prior to what Mycroft would consider ‘Now.’

_ Christmas Eve. _

“Christmas Eve…” Mycroft felt his stomach drop. Among the horrid memories he possessed of the holiday, this may have been the worst. “No.”

_ Yes. _

“Why?”

_ Because there are things you seem to have forgotten. _

“I’ve not forgotten this,” he insisted.

_ Good. Then it will all seem quite familiar. _

“I don’t want-” Mycroft cut himself off as he saw another version of… himself, younger, not as young as the ghost, but somehow softer, stride through the hospital doors and breeze past the reception desk. He hadn’t needed to introduce himself by sheer will of his own confidence. It was a carefully constructed facade. But it had served him well enough that evening.

“Room five, Mr. Holmes…” The receptionist had called as he stepped into the elevator. “Floor three.”

He’d acknowledged the information with the smallest nod and the elevator doors slid shut.

_ How put together you look. _

“You know as well as I do, I wasn’t.”

_ Yes. But what an impressive show you put on. _

“That’s unfair.”

_ Is it? _

“Sir, are you his brother?”

Mycroft looked up and froze. They’d moved. He was back ahead of himself. Which meant…

“Yes. Might I enquire after his current state?”

“He’s intubated. Sedated, but comfortable.”

“And… prior?”

“He had seized. We can’t be sure how long. It was… Fortunate how quickly CPR was commenced.”

Mycroft watched himself startle. It was subtle, but an inexcusable slip in his control.

_ Ah. So you see it now. _

“I was unaware resuscitation had been necessary. Who…”

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade. He’s inside. He didn’t want to leave until family arrived."

“Thank you. May I?” He gestured to the room.

“Of course. Yes.”

He’d needed a fortifying breath before he entered the room. Mycroft remembered the stillness of the room. Not silent, there was an almost hypnotic whir, murmur, and beep of medical equipment. But his brother was, for the first time he could remember, still. Pale. Paler than normal, almost colorless. And still. Save for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest with the ventilator. And Mycroft had mirrored the inaction with a hush of his own.

“Mr. Holmes?”

He startled again.

_ You didn’t even remember he was there. _

“Shut up,” he hissed at his younger self.

He had cleared his throat and looked up to find concerned brown eyes watching him with a knowing gaze. It was the first time he’d met Gregory Lestrade. Not the first he’d heard of him; he was well aware of his brother’s antics and kept on top of his associates. The Detective Sergeant had cleared the background check, had arrested his brother once or twice, had listened to him and minded him, and had been encouraging him to drop the drug habit. This had not been the forum in which Mycroft had hoped to meet him.

“Detective Sergeant,” he held out a hand. “I… apologise for the circumstances…”

“Greg, please. And. God, yeah. I didn’t even know he had a brother…”

He regarded his brother for a long moment. “He and I have a… a rather difficult…”

“Hey,” Lestrade’s hand had landed on his shoulder, and when Mycroft had looked up, he’d gotten a reassuring squeeze. The touch was given freely, almost casual, and it was devastating. “Family, yeah? You should sit down.”

“I’m quite alright, I…” Then he found himself pushed into the chair at Sherlock’s bedside.

“I need to make a few calls.” Lestrade had pulled his mobile from his pocket and frowned at it as it buzzed in his palm. “But I’ll be back in a tick, yeah?” he hurried to finish. “You could probably use a coffee about as much as me.”

“I…” He started to object on principle, but quickly recalculated. Lestrade was going to bring him a coffee regardless of any argument. “Thank you.”

When Lestrade gently shut the door in his wake, closing the Holmes brothers on the other side, Mycroft was surprised to find himself outside the room. “This isn’t…”

_ This is where we need to be. _

Lestrade had his phone up to his ear, a hand on his hip, pacing down the corridor. “I know, I know… I’ll be there as soon as I can… You don’t know what I walked into… Jesus, Tori, I’m at the hospital… Because he nearly died!” He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Don’t… No, Tori, let her sl-Hey, Monkey!” His smile was soft and fragile. “I miss you too, kiddo. I’ll be home tonight… I’m sorry I missed it. I bet you were a fantastic reindeer… Well, thank goodness there’s a video of it!... Hey, babe, is mum still there?... Ok… You brush your teeth. And don’t forget to leave out cookies for Santa… Ok... Put her on?” Lestrade’s face shifted instantly. “Tori, look… What? No. Devon isn’t until… Don’t do that, not tonight… Tori…” He swallowed. “Right. Yeah. I’ll see you later ton-… Ok. Fine.”

Mycroft watched the one-sided conversation with a growing sense of dread. “This was the night?”

_ Not entirely. It wasn’t the first fight. And certainly not the last. But when she looked for justification, an absent husband and father on Christmas Eve was convenient.  _

“He missed Christmas Eve because of us.”

_ Yes. _

“He loves Christmas.”

_ Mmn. _

Lestrade pocketed his mobile, heaved a sigh towards the ceiling, collected himself, and headed purposefully towards the nearest desk. “Sorry, is there anywhere I can get a cup of coffee at this hour?”

“He… After that call?”

_ He did. _

“Why?” Mycroft looked through the wall, into the room. A room where he was sitting, hunched over in an uncomfortable hospital chair, watching information run across the monitors with a dispassionate eye.

_ Because he cares. _

Mycroft frowned at his younger self. “He didn’t even know me.”

_ He didn’t need to. _

Lestrade rapped gently on the door before pushing into the room. “I hope you like cream and sugar,” he handed over a warm cup of coffee. “This stuff is practically undrinkable without it.”

“Oh,” he’d looked up to find the cup within reach. He’d looked surprised to see Lestrade come back. He was, of course. But he rarely looked it. He looked… 

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lost as I did just then.”

_ No. I don’t think you have. _

Lestrade dragged another chair up near the one Mycroft was seated in. “Kick me out as soon as you’re ready. But this isn’t something I’ll leave you alone with, unless you want.”

He had blinked at him. And nodded. And Lestrade had stayed.

_ Come. I have something else you should see. _

Mycroft tore his eyes from the sight of his brother in the bed. “Must we?”

_ I think so, yes. _

“Then lead on MacDuff.”

His younger self raised a brow.

_ I hope you find comfort in the sardonicism. _

Mycroft blinked and glanced around. The place was familiar. London, obviously, but with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Not only that he’d been to this place, but also this moment. He had occupied this point in space and time before, but a very distant occupation. It was disconcerting.

“Where are we?”

_ You know where we are. _

Good Lord, he had been insufferable as a child. “I know we’re in London. That question was intended in the broader, metaphysical sense.”

_ I know it was. _

Mycroft frowned. London. Not Whitehall, thank goodness. No, closer to Oxford Circus. Regent Street. But… Then he saw them. Him. Himself really. Clutching a bag from Hamleys in one hand and clinging to his father’s hand with the other. “How…”

_ Were we ever truly that young? _

He glanced down at his younger self. “I know I was aware of irony, even at your age.”

His younger self smirked.

“Daddy, look!” Across the street, a young Mycroft pointed at the glowing lights adorning a nearby window.

His father smiled and swung him up onto his hip with a grunt. “You’re almost too big for me to be doing this.”

“There’s Father Christmas!”

_ We used to love Christmas. _

He had. When he was younger. He had absolutely loved the season. The lights, the noise, the merriment. The holidays were magical. This may have been the last time he’d been young enough to enjoy it.

_ What changed? _

“Everything,” he replied. This was the last year he had delighted in Christmas. Mummy had spent the weeks, Christmas, Boxing Day, New Years, in the hospital. Mycroft had the horrifying suspicion that his mother had been on her death bed for his birthday. It had been a trying delivery at the end of a difficult pregnancy, and yet his new baby brother had been small and sick and stayed another two weeks in hospital before being released home. Mycroft Holmes had turned forty on his seventh birthday.

Across the street, his father set him down. “Stay close, son. It’s busy here, and we’ve a bit of a walk to the tube.”

“GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

Mycroft spun at the commotion, his heart sinking. He remembered this now. A young boy darted through the crowd, running at full tilt away from the man chasing him. People stepped aside, making something of a path for the man, less out of want to assist him, and more out of a desire not to be shoved out of the way.

Mycroft flinched as the boy ran into the street. Traffic was heavy and it was after dark. The fact that he’d narrowly avoided getting crushed by a bus and a taxi was tantamount to a Christmas miracle. Then he plunged into the crowd surrounding the toy store.

“WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU!”

It was strange this time, seeing with an adult perspective as his father absorbed the scene. A child fleeing someone clearly drunk and certainly intent on violence. “Hey, Myc, come here.” His father lifted him back onto his hip and extended his free hand towards the boy with a hissed, “Here!”

The boy saw the hand and blindly took it, matching the casual pace his father set as they headed for Piccadilly. Mycroft followed them. Watching the way the boy’s chest heaved as he desperately fought to catch his breath, the way his shoulders stiffened as the man shouted again from the middle of the heavy crowd.

His father’s hand squeezed gently. “No, don’t look back. Just keep walking.” They made their way down the street, around a corner, and into a McDonalds. “Hungry?” The boy just blinked at him, large brown eyes cautiously hopeful in spite of the bruise blooming on his cheek. His father’s face softened. “There’s a bathroom in the back. Why don’t you go wash your hands and splash some water on your face, hm? Burger or chicken?”

The boy blinked again, and for a moment, Mycroft thought he wouldn’t answer. He would. Of course he would. And it was a quiet, almost curious, “Burger?”

_ Look familiar? _

“Of course it does. I remember this. I was, in fact, laying down concrete memories at seven. We had happy meals, which my mother would have abhorred. I gave him my hat and gloves, so he wouldn’t get cold.”

_ Not quite seven. And the hat wasn’t because of the cold. Nor was that entirely what I meant. _

“No?”

The boy returned, unable to mask his surprise to find them at a table, food waiting. Surprise that the food was waiting for him. His father tucked Mycroft’s hat onto his head.

_ Makes him more difficult to recognise at a glance, doesn’t it? _

He ate the food quickly and quietly, watching the window and both of them warily. When the food was gone, and young Mycroft was growing fidgety, his father gave the boy a serious look. “Are you alright?”

The boy shrugged.

Mycroft huffed. “Ridiculous. Is he alright? Clearly he’s not. He can’t be more than ten, he’s off on his own in the middle of London, after being beaten by an alcoholic beast. Alright? Heaven help us. He’s certainly not alright.”

_ No. He wasn’t. Not then. _

“Then?”

“Do you have somewhere to go?” his father continued. “Somewhere safe to sleep?”

“I do just fine, ta.” The accent was a harsh East London, full of equal parts bravado and fear.

His father nodded. “It’s going to be below freezing.” He handed over Mycroft’s gloves. “Can I make a suggestion?” The boy shrugged again. “Let me give you cab fare to get where you’re going.”

The boy froze. “Money? You… You want to give me money?”

“If it can get you someplace safe. Yes. Absolutely.”

There was a long silence. Not still, never still. And the boy studied Mycroft’s father. Trying to understand exactly what was going on. What he could trust. When the other shoe was going to drop. After a long pause, the boy nodded. “My aunt. She’s in Islington. Her boyfriend’s a copper.”

His father nodded encouragingly. “That sounds like a safe place to go. Would you like me to hail you a cab? Would that be easier?”

The boy nodded back.

Back on the street, shoppers were bustling in all directions. Busy Christmas chaos on all sides. Blinking lights, Christmas music, bells ringing from charity collectors, and the smell of impending snow. Mycroft watched as his father hailed a taxi and held the door open for the boy. He handed him a small fold of bills and then a business card. “If you need something, anything, you can call. My office is closed for the holidays, but the home number is on the back.”

Not to be outdone, Mycroft watched as his six year-old self reached into his Hamleys bag and drew out his Rupert Christmas Annual and matching stuffed Teddy. He held them both out to the boy, who seemed to hesitate even longer before accepting them. “You sure?”

He had nodded earnestly. “Happy Christmas!”

A bright smile broke across the boy’s face.

“Oh…”

_ See it now, do you?” _

“Oh my God…”

“Thanks kid!” The boy reached out a hand and ruffled young Mycroft’s hair. Then he turned to his father and gave a serious nod. “Thank you, sir.”

His father smiled. “Get yourself to your aunt’s house now.”

“Y’sir.”

The taxi door shut, and the cab pulled into traffic, disappearing in the rush of cars and horns and nighttime street.

“I had… I had no idea.”

_ And to think, just yesterday you couldn’t understand where his holiday cheer came from. _

“Oh my God.” Mycroft covered his mouth with his hand. “He gave me the Christmas Annual.”

_ He did, didn’t he. _

“He… How could I forget…”

_ We should go. _

“Who was that chasing him?”

_ Perhaps you should ask him. _

“I don’t know that he’ll be willing to speak to me after how I behaved.”

_ In the morning, things may look different. But before the morning, we have another stop. Just one more… The night is hardly halfway done… _

“One more,” Mycroft grumbled. “I fully expect you intend to show me sitting alone in my office this year.”

_ If you wanted to be in your office, you wouldn’t be at home. _

“Was I actually this arrogant when I was your age?”

_ I am only a memory. And as I seem to be of your making, I am only as you remember yourself. _

“Excellent. I was a horrible prat of a child. Where are we going?”

_ Where you need to be this evening. _

“This evening?” Mycroft squinted. “I thought we were doing Christmas Eve. It isn’t Christmas Eve yet.”

His younger self smiled at him. It was a familiar expression, both condescending and smug.

_ I wonder what has inspired you to invent all of these rules. Under what circumstances would these arbitrary guidelines apply to me? Forgive me for being blunt, but I will do as I deem necessary, and you will be forced to endure it, like it or not. _

He faced the irritatingly raised brow of his ten year-old face. “Dear Lord, I was unbearable. It’s a miracle my parents didn’t-”

_ We’re here. _

Mycroft glanced around. He knew this place. This was the lake.

_ The lake. _

The lake in the woods that bordered his parents’ home. Shared between the cluster of remote properties, it sat in a grove of evergreen trees and was perpetually cold, even in the summer. The decaying plant materials gave the water a brownish tinge, depthless look, and eerily bottomless appearance. It did have a bottom. But it was quite deep. Really, really quite deep. And on one of the shortest days of the year, it was completely frozen over, fresh snow settling on the glassy surface.

“Why here?”

His younger self waved a hand blithely at the lake.

_ You wondered what would come of his case. Gave assistance, no less. _

Mycroft looked, really looked. There was a form, a small form in the middle of the lake. A moving lump, huddled on the ice, no bigger than a child.

_ No, he is no bigger than a child, is he? _

“A child?!” Mycroft blurted out uncharacteristically. “Wait. That… That’s the child. THE child. The child Lestrade has been searching for.”

_ It is. _

“What on earth is he doing sitting in the middle of the lake?”

_ I believe he is crawling on the ice, and made it there rather by accident. _

“Who would allow a child in the middle of a frozen lake?”

_ Who would abduct a child in the first place? _

Mycroft huffed and started towards the shoreline. If he wouldn’t answer himself, then he would go find out.

“Sam?”

Mycroft froze at the voice.

“Sam!”

“Lestrade…”

_ You did say he was searching for that boy. _

“SAM!”

A sob sounded from the middle of the lake.

_ Searching for and found. _

“Sam!” Lestrade reached the edge of the lake, eyeing the fresh snow layering the ice. “Sam, are you alright?”

“Please come get me!” The boy cried back.

“Shit. Ok! Stay there!” Lestrade took a deep breath, steeled his shoulders, and carefully edged his toe out on the ice. “Just… I’ll… I’ll come get you.”

“Lestrade, no!” Mycroft shouted. “Don’t!”

He was cautious, he would grant him that. Rather than lifting his feet, he slid an inch at a time. Feeling his way along the ice as only someone who’d learned to respect slick ground the hard way could. London streets were rather unforgiving in the dead of winter. And Lestrade was making progress much faster than Mycroft thought possible. Then there was a snapping sound and Lestrade hesitated. Only briefly hesitated.

Mycroft heard the crack. The odd echo of fracturing ice, loud in the otherwise snow-muffled night. Lestrade must have heard it, but it didn’t stop him. It barely gave him pause. The child let out a whimper.

“Just stay put, Sam. I’m coming to you!”

“Lestrade!” Mycroft waved his arms, begging for attention.

_ He can’t see you _ .

“No, Sam! Stay there!” Greg held up his hands, inching further on the ice. He was a good ten feet out onto the ice now. Far enough away from the shore that the water beneath him would be deep. “There’s a good lad. We’ll get you home. Just give me a minute.”

The boy was crying. Mycroft could hear him from his spot on the shoreline. Just as well as he could hear another snap of breaking ice. “Lestrade!” He needed to move faster. “Hurry!”

_ Interesting that in spite of the full knowledge of your current inability to interact with this scene, you insist upon shouting. _

“He is going to fall through the ice!”

_ Yes. _

“He’ll DROWN!”

_ Quite possibly. _

“Why are you acting like you don’t care?!” Mycroft snarled, grabbing his younger self by the shoulders. “You know-I know how terrifying that lake is!”

_ And would caring help save him? _

“YES!”

_ How? _

“Sherlock... “

_ Was too small and too young to help you. Much like that poor boy is too small to do more than add to the weight that will ultimately break the ice. If he is still on it, he will likely drown as well. This lake is hidden. It is in the middle of the proverbial nowhere. Without help, falling through the ice will kill them both. _

“But… But I didn’t drown! I…”

_ You were dead for five minutes. You were brought back to life by someone well versed in CPR and the quick thinking of your younger brother, who brought you aid. _

“There we go,” Lestrade said soothingly, lifting the boy from the ice. 

He let out a sob and clung to Lestrade. “My arm hurts!”

“You’re ok. I’ve got you.” He tucked him in close, wrapping him under the edges of his coat. “Ok. Alright.” Lestrade kept talking, perhaps to comfort himself as much as the child. “Here we go. Let’s get you home.”

“Come on, Lestrade!”

There was a crunching sound, more subtle than the loud snap they’d heard earlier, but foreboding nonetheless. The ice was going to break. They were still twenty feet away. Mycroft couldn’t breathe. He’d refused to go near the lake since he was ten. He couldn’t even bring himself to toe the shore. And now he was going to watch Lestrade and another child fall in.

“We have to do something!”

_ We cannot. _

“Sam, listen to me.”

“Please!”

_ There is nothing we can do. _

“Sam,” Lestrade moved another few inches, his weight shift causing another rumbling crunch. “Do you see the house over there? The lights?”

The boy nodded.

“I’m going to put you down.” A small fist clenched in Lestrade’s coat. “You can do this. It’ll be alright. You see that house?”

“Yes.”

“When I put you down,” he risked another step. “I want you to run there. Can you do that?”

“That’s my house,” Mycroft whispered.

_ It is. Serendipitous that your parents use timers on the holiday lights, isn’t it? _

“But…”

“That’s a friendly house,” Lestrade continued, risking a glance at all the Christmas lights. “And if no one is home, there might be key under the pot next to the door. Call the police.”

“I’m home. I’m there!” Mycroft waved his arms again. “Lestrade! Come on!”

_ I wonder what you will do with a lost, terrified child who breaks into your parents’ home. _

“Shut up!” he snarled.

“I’m going to put you down.” Lestrade shifted his grip, crouching to put Sam on his feet. “You run and don’t look back. No matter what you hear, don’t look back. You ask for Donovan. She’ll look after you.”

“LESTRADE!”

“Run. Sam, go!”

The boy took off at a sprint, slipping and scrambling on the ice until he reached the bank, then blew through Mycroft and his younger self at speed, heading for the house. Mycroft shuddered as he passed through him, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lake. Lestrade cautiously, slowly rose back to his full height, the ice beneath him visibly unstable. He took one small step. Another. Then another. Then with a horrible crunching sound, he dropped through the ice and disappeared into the lake.

“Gregory!” Mycroft sat bolt upright, blinking rapidly against the darkness. The soft chime of the grandfather clock reverberated through the cottage, which, aside from the familiar creaks and groans of an aging residence, was quiet. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked again, taking in his old room. He was home. He was still at home. In his bed. In the room he’d grown up in, albeit updated and more suited to an adult than his preteen decorations had been. Home. And alone. He blew out a breath and flopped backwards onto his pillows. What an absolute nightmare. No more wine and cheese before bed.

He glanced at his watch. Just gone midnight. Mummy and daddy would be coming in tomorrow. Back from their cruise for Christmas at the homestead. Sherlock and John would be in the following day. The Holmes family Christmas, in a full and small cottage. Was it too much to ask for a small war? A mini financial crisis? Anything that would require him to return to London in a fashion that wouldn’t get his ears boxed? Maybe Lestrade had a case that required liaising with the government, a skill his brother could not and would not master to save his life…

To save anyone’s life…

Wait. Midnight…

Midnight tonight!

That was tonight!

Oh God!

Mycroft tossed the covers off and headed for the garage. He shoved his feet into the nearest pair of boots, thank goodness daddy kept his ready at the door, and threw on the parka hanging nearby. Passing through the garage, his eyes landed on an old plastic toboggan. Perfect. He grabbed the sled and a length of towing cable and ran. The toboggan was awkward to run with, and he was, ashamedly, horribly unfit. He should run more. New Year’s resolution, he promised himself through the puffed clouds of his own breath.

He wove through the trees, the childhood memory of the path so well ingrained that he didn’t need to think. He reached the edge of the pines, finding the pair on the ice in an instant. Sam was already running for the shore. Running towards him. “Lestrade!” he called. “Don’t move!”

“Mycroft?!”

Sam reached the bank, skidding to a stop at the sight of Mycroft. “Sam? My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“He’s a friend, Sam,” Lestrade called.

“Oh.”

“Run on to the house,” he gestured through the trees. “The garage is open. There is a phone in the kitchen. Speed dial eight. I will be along with Lestrade in a moment.” Sam nodded and ran, passing by rather than through him this time.

“Myc, what are you doing?!”

“No!” Mycroft shouted. “Stay there!” He looped the cable through the tie of the sled and stalked towards the lake’s edge.

“Mycroft, don’t!” He held out his hands. “The ice isn’t stable!”

“I know!” He crouched at the shoreline. “I’m going to slide this out to you. Do not move until you have it.” Anchoring the cable around his own waist, Mycroft shoved the toboggan out onto the lake, frowning as it came to a stop three feet shy of Lestrade. “Grab the sled!”

“Is that tied to you?! No!”

“Lestrade, grab the sled!”

“Tie it to a tree, Mycroft!”

“For God’s sake! Please, Gregory!” He wasn’t above begging, and he could pinpoint the moment Lestrade gave in. 

“Right.” Lestrade examined the ice around his feet. “Right, ok.” He tentatively slid his foot forward. One inch. Another inch. And a full step towards the sled. Mycroft planted his feet, bracing against the impending pull on the cable. Lestrade crept another six inches, slow and steady in his cautious progress. “Ok,” he muttered to himself. “Alright. Nearly there.” He glanced up, finding Mycroft and flashing him a faltering smile.

Mycroft felt the corners of him mouth pull, reluctantly, into a smile.

Then, with a horrible crunching sound, Lestrade dropped through the ice and disappeared into the lake.

“NO!”


	21. A Man Undercover

He heard the crunch of the ice giving way and the shout from Mycroft that sounded almost terrified, then he was plunged into an absolute silence. Dark. Still. Silence. For all he knew, he was dead. He certainly wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t breathing. Not dead. But not breathing. Not dead, but dying. Then he registered the cold. Wet cold.

Fuck.

He was in the lake. He’d fallen in. Oh God, Sam! The freezing water was making him slow. It took far too long for him to figure out which way was up. There wasn’t much light, as late as it was. And it was so quiet. He pumped his arms, catching chunks of ice and swirling water. Up. He needed to go up. His hand hit the underside of the ice and it startled a puff of air out of him before he thought better. Shit. He hit the ice with the flat of his palm and it didn’t move. Shit, shit, shit. Where was the hole? Where had he fallen through?! He flailed. It was panic. Pure panic. He was suffocating. The cold was intense enough that his skin was burning. And he couldn’t find the surface.

He flailed again. And his arm bumped something solid. Not ice. Solid and not ice. He grabbed on and was moving. He gasped as he broke the surface, heaving a breath that burned for how warm the air felt.

“DON’T YOU DARE LET GO OF THAT!”

He wasn’t letting go. He wasn’t even sure he could if he tried. He shuddered as the sled managed to bump up onto the surface of the ice and started dragging him towards the shore. “Fuck,” he tucked his knees up to keep his feet from trailing on the ice behind him. He never thought he’d have seen Mycroft Holmes haul anything, let alone an old toboggan with his half drowned arse on it. He couldn’t have been sure Mycroft was strong enough. Maybe he was delirious from the cold. Then again, maybe he was actually dead.

“Foolish.” The closer he got to the bank of the lake, the more he became aware of Mycroft talking. “Asinine.” Muttering really. Mycroft Holmes didn’t mutter. “Idiotic.” Little puffs of breath clouding the space in front of him with each pull. “Ridiculous.”

He sniffed and tried to wipe his face against his shoulder, only to be met with the drenched sleeve of his coat. He was soaked. He’d need a new mobile. How would he ring Sally? “Are y-you giving out?”

“Yes.” Mycroft grunted. “I am.”

He tried not to smile and failed, or at least he thought he might have failed, his cheeks were too numb to be sure.

“Do NOT get up!” Mycroft snapped. “Daft.”

When he was only a foot from the shore, he rolled off the sled, ignoring the indignant squawk from his rescuer. He stumbled to his feet and staggered to the bank, bracing himself with his palms on his thighs. 

A pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders.”What on Earth were you thinking?!”

He thought, for a second, that Mycroft may have given him a shake. But he was shivering, trembling enough that he could have been mistaken. His brain latched onto the first thing it could. “Are you wearing pajamas?”

Mycroft’s expression vacillated between irate and curious consternation as he tugged his coat tighter closed around his pajamas. “Inside.” He took Lestrade’s upper arm and led him briskly back to the house.

~

Mycroft abandoned Lestrade in the mudroom and went to look after the boy. He was relieved to find that Sam had been clever enough to call Anthea on the speed dial. Not only were his people on their way to collect Sam and see to his health, the most trusted from NSY would be in attendance as well. And all the better for it, as the snow that had been falling all evening had built into impressive wet, heavy drifts. The roads out by the cottage would be impassable come morning.

After settling Sam on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket, a fresh mug of cocoa in his hand, surrounded by his parents’ overzealous Christmas decor, Mycroft returned to Lestrade. Who was still standing in the mudroom, looking absently around the room. “This your house?”

“My parents. Why are you still standing there?”

Lestrade shrugged.

“Really, Lestrade.” Mycroft took him by the arm again, led him up to his room, and straight into the en suite. “You are soaked through.” It was an overly obvious and technically unnecessary statement, but Lestrade seemed confused by the location. With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft cranked on the shower and turned it to warm, by no means hot, and gestured pointedly. “Clothes off. Warm shower. Brief. Then dry clothes and a warm bed.”

“W-what?”

Mycroft stared. “Did you hit your head?”

“N-no. I don’t think. Not t-tonight anyway.”

“For God’s sake,” he slid behind Lestrade and tugged the sodden coat from his shoulders and heaved it onto the counter, half-in, half-out of the sink. It hit the marble with a wet smack and immediately began dripping water on the floor. He raised a brow. “Either take the rest of your clothes off, or I will put you in the shower fully dressed, shoes and all.”

Lestrade snorted, then sniffed and shivered, as if the coat had been somehow keeping him warm. “Is S-sam-”

“He is fine. Detective Sergeant Donovan is on her way to meet with my people. He will be at home, with his parents before you are warm and dry, given how obstinate you appear to be.” 

“The house where they’d left him, it’s on the other side of the lake. Left my car…”

“I’m sure it will be easily located.” He pulled two large towels from the press, setting them pointedly on the empty corner of the counter. “I will find some dry clothes for you. And I rather insist you make an effort to get warm in the meantime.”

“I-right.” Lestrade gave a slow nod. “Ok.”

In the time it took him to find clothing that would fit Lestrade, the man had only managed to remove his shirt, and vest, seemingly stymied by the laces of his shoes and his belt. Mycroft draped the fresh clothes over the radiator and glanced at Lestrade. He was shivering violently and shaking his head at Mycroft’s frown.

“S-sorry. F-f-fuck, can’t get my fingers t-to…”

“Ah.” Now was not the time for embarrassment. Mycroft crouched down onto one knee at Lestrade’s feet. “Shoes first.” He untied the laces and pried them loose, sucking in a sharp breath as Lestrade’s freezing hand grabbed his shoulder for balance. No wonder he couldn’t manage all of his clothes. He eased one shoe off of his foot and stripped the sock before shifting to do the same with the other side. “Belt,” he reached up and paused at the sound of Lestrade’s snort.

“S-sorry,” Lestrade mumbled, shuddering. “Weird day.”

Mycroft flashed a wry smile, forcefully resisting the urge to truly scrutinize Lestrade’s shirtless form. “Oh, you as well?” With the belt open and slid free from his belt loops, Mycroft set to work on the button and fly of his denims. “Might I make a suggestion?”

“S-sure.”

He pressed his lips together, then gave an uncharacteristic shrug. “For the sake of your modesty, start the shower in your pants. I can help you out of your trousers. The wet denim cannot be comfortable. And once you can feel your fingers, you might be able to slip them off yourself.”

Lestrade blinked, as if to process what Mycroft had proposed. “I… Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Not m-much modesty left,” he huffed and offered a half smile.

Mycroft pressed his lips together, biting back a grin. “To your dignity then.” He tugged the jeans down over Lestrade’s hips and guided his legs as he stepped out of them. “Now,” Mycroft stood. “Shower.”

Lestrade turned to comply with Mycroft’s instruction and instantly tangled his feet in the discarded clothing. He barely had a moment to lift his arms before he stumbled bodily into Mycroft. Prepared or not, Mycroft suddenly found himself trapped between the counter and the very wet, very cold press of Lestrade’s full weight. Faced with the choice between both of them ending up on the floor and catching him, Mycroft’s arms closed around him, palms sliding across damp skin to stop in an awkward embrace.

Lestrade’s hands landed, one on Mycroft’s shoulder, the other on the lip of the counter. He sucked in a sharp breath of surprise and stared wide-eyed at Mycroft for a moment. Then he blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching. Mycroft raised a brow in response. And Lestrade laughed, the absurdity of the entire situation mixed with the adrenaline drop leaving him giddy.

“Emotional lability,” Mycroft offered with a tentative smile. Lestrade laughed harder, dropping his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. Soon, high-pitched giggles were shaking his shoulders as Mycroft hummed a laugh in return, setting a protective palm on the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Lestrade managed, the giggles tapering off as he continued to shiver.

“It is to be expected,” Mycroft murmured, helping him back upright. “Alright?”

Lestrade nodded and accepted the offered arm to guide him into the shower.

“Don’t spend too long. The water isn’t as hot as it may feel. I will be outside when you’re done.”

Lestrade nodded again. “Ta.”

~

The shower was sobering. He knew the water wasn’t particularly hot, but it felt like it was scalding his skin for the first few minutes. And with the luke-warm heat on the outside, he became aware of just how cold he felt inside. It was a bone-deep type of frozen and fatigue. And he continued to shiver, in spite of the warmth in the bathroom. He wasn’t looking forward to the drive back to London.

The clothes Mycroft had left out were, maybe a bit long, but a surprisingly good fit. Warm, comfortable, soft. The word cozy popped into his head as he tugged the thick wool socks on. Pre-warmed on the heated rack, the temperature was a welcome change to the cooling, steam-filled room. And the texture of the well-worn cotton was probably the only thing his overly sensitized skin could tolerate. He flexed his fingers in and out of fists a few times. The joints all felt stiff, but they were functional. He’d be able to drive at least. He picked up the second towel and tried to scrub the remaining moisture from ihs hair, yawning halfway through the process. Right. Better sooner than later. He headed out of the bathroom.

The temperature in the bedroom was a good few degrees cooler and he shivered as goosebumps erupted on his arms, under the sweatshirt. “Hafta ge’back t’the office.” Greg didn’t toss the towel as he pulled it away from his still damp hair. Mostly, he didn’t have the energy to throw anything. Partly, he didn’t want to leave any more of a mess for Mycroft to clean up. So he draped the towel over the bathroom doorknob.

“You won’t be able to drive a car through the snow, the drifts are too high.” Mycroft handed him a wooly hat and waited futilely for him to put it on. “You ought to avail of the bed and piles of blankets I’ve managed to obtain.”

“There’s paperwork. My car. An’Sam…”

“Please, Lestrade,” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your car has been moved here. The paperwork will wait. Sam will be looked after by both the best of your people and the best of mine. And the fatigue will hit you sooner than you believe.”

He planted his feet and glared at Mycroft. Sam needed to be with his family. Hell, Greg wanted to be with his own family. It didn’t matter that Ellie was in Portugal; Millie and Pete would be happy to have him. Plus, he didn’t want to be… here. He sniffed and pushed down a shiver. “That kid has been through a lot.”

“And he will survive it!” Mycroft snapped. The anger an unusual and unexpected amount of emotion in his voice. He visibly calmed himself. “You will be better rested and fully rewarmed before you return to London if you stay the remainder of the night.”

Rested… Greg scoffed to hide a yawn. “I shouldn’t be here, I should b’there.”

Mycroft straightened. “Gregory Lestrade, get in that bed, or so help me!”

“W’s’the point?” His teeth would have chattered were his jaw not clenched tight and his lips pursing far enough to slur his words.

“You are absolutely insufferable. Bed. Now.” The hand Mycroft had been using to guide and encourage movement became something more forceful.

Greg flushed angrily. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t going to be manhandled by Mycroft Holmes… At least not for a second time. “Oi! Knock it off!”

“If I allowed a house guest to freeze to death, Mummy would have my head.” Mycroft took his upper arm in hand. “You are shivering. In spite of the warm shower. You spent a not insignificant amount of time in a frozen lake. You nearly died. Now get in that bed so I can tend to the fire without fear of you expiring in the next ten minutes.”

Nearly died… Greg frowned at him, taking a moment to process what had happened, to play out the scenario of what might have happened if Mycroft hadn’t been there. There was no way he was getting out of that lake as fast. If at all. And then he’d be what? In the middle of nowhere, soaked to the bone, and maybe with a child that had gotten soaked too? He shuddered. Maybe he was being a bit unfair. “Fine.” He stumbled, his feet still a bit uncoordinated, his limbs still heavy with cold. But he managed to clumsily make his way to the bed.

With more force than was perhaps necessary, Mycroft thrust the hot water bottle under the duvet and pulled the nest of blankets around his shoulders. When Greg shifted himself upright, Mycroft may have actually seen red. “Good Lord, you are impossible!” He grabbed the wooly hat out of his hand, tugged it down over Greg’s ears, and pushed him back against the pillows. “I have had an evening full of incredible nightmares! That lake nearly killed me once. Watching you fall through the ice for a second time was one step too far! I am not in the humor, so do not test me. Stay!”

Greg blinked at him owlishly, a fine shiver running through his shoulders. “‘Kay,” he whispered, clutching the water bottle to his chest. The heat was truly welcome. It made his limbs feel weighted, but his hands felt better. Had Mycroft said he’d nearly died in that lake?

Mycroft scoffed and turned his back, focusing on the fireplace, stoking the logs into a roaring flame. “If I go downstairs, can I trust you to stay in this bed until I return?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, ok.”

Mycroft gave him a skeptical glare. “Stay.”

“Not a yard dog.” Greg muttered, shifting under the blankets into a comfortable position.

One of his brows shot up. “Be that as it may.”

“Fine.”

“I shall be back shortly.”

Greg watched him go and sighed. As parts of him warmed up, he started to feel exactly how cold he still was. Sitting in a car would have, at least, resulted in his back pulling into a tight spasm. At most, he might have wrecked his car or fallen asleep at the wheel. He shuddered and circled back to Mycroft’s tirade. Accepting that he quite nearly died as a result of falling in the lake, what had Mycroft meant about him falling through the ice a second time? And that the lake had nearly killed Mycroft at some point? Beyond which, his brain sluggishly reminded him, Mycroft had changed out of his pajamas, likely damp from… Oh God. He blushed. From when he’d removed Greg’s clothes. From his knees. And it may have been the only moment he’d been grateful for the frigid bath, lest he thoroughly embarrass himself with a man that, in spite of years of hints, and heated moments, remained steadfastly aloof. Then, after having a deeply petty spat, Greg had all but collapsed against him. And when Mycroft had been nothing but kind about it, he’d come out here and tried to pick a fight. Mortifying. He groaned.

“Are you alright?”

“Yup,” he muttered. “Peachy. You?”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I am… You’re not hurt?”

“No,” he sighed and propped himself up against the pillows, doing his best to keep the heat from escaping the blanket nest he was in. “Just… I’m sorry for being a pain.”

“You’re not a… A pain.” Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Stubborn, perhaps. Though I fear that’s brought you this far intact, so I cannot fault it.”

“You were looking out for me, and I was being a jerk. I’m sorry. I don’t like the cold. And I don’t like being told what to do.”

“I imagine you’re rather practiced at telling other people what to do.”

Greg flashed him a wry smile. “And you’re not?”

Mycroft raised one of the two mugs he held, both in acknowledgement and offer. “I know they generally advise against it, but I’ve brought you a hot whiskey with lemon.”

“Oh?” He freed his arms from the blankets and immediately shivered. Mycroft didn’t miss it.

“No,” he handed the mug over and perched gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Alcohol is not conducive to recovery following a submersion and mild hypothermia.”

He wrapped his palms around the mug and inhaled the steam. Screw anyone who’d advise against this. He took a sip and felt the heat and smoke of the whiskey burn down to his stomach. “Oh?”

Mycroft raised a brow over the rim of his own mug as he mirrored the sip. “Warm beverages are, in fact, recommended, whiskey is comforting, the alcohol is likely to make you fall asleep sooner, and I dislike drinking alone.”

Greg grinned. He’d probably exchanged more words with Mycroft in the past three days than in the rest of the year combined, and he found the dry humor refreshing. “Trying to take advantage of me?”

“I assure you,” Mycroft stated flatly, unable to completely disguise his amusement. “While I’ve thus far managed to divest you of your phone, car, and clothing.” He paused, his mouth turning up at the corner. “And settled you in my bed. I have no nefarious designs on your person this evening.”

“Shame."

“Quite.”

Greg shivered again and yawned; Mycroft frowned. “Are you still cold?”

He shrugged. “I think I’m warm enough to know how cold I am. I’m better than I was.”

Mycroft took back his mug and set them both on the nightstand. “You should sleep. I’m keeping you.”

“I’m in your bed. Y’kinda have it backwards.” He shifted down in the bed and curled in on himself. It was nice having his arms back under the blankets.

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft started flicking off the lamps in the room, leaving only the fire to cast a warm glow.

“Mycroft,” Greg hesitated. “You… How did you know I was down there?”

“I’m afraid that’s a rather long story, and it’s quite late.”

“One more story, then I promise I’ll go to sleep.”

Mycroft laughed, just a short, sharp burst of sound. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you know better.” He patted the empty side of the bed from under the blankets. “Stay? Just for a bit?”

“You,” he crossed the room and managed to climb up on the bed in a graceful way, sitting against the headboard with his legs stretched out. “Are nothing but trouble, Lestrade.”

“Slander.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “It’s only slander if it’s false.”

“True.”

Mycroft sighed. “Did you know that I fell into that lake myself?”

“You said… Recently?”

“Lord no. I was, perhaps ten. Just after Christmas.”

“Jesus.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft hummed, setting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Our toboggan had slid out of our control and onto the ice. I had, regretfully, taken it upon myself to retrieve it.”

“‘Course you did.”

“Unfortunately for me, the ice was not as thick as I assumed.”

“You don’t assume,” Greg yawned. God, Mycroft had been right about that whiskey. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open.

“I was mistaken that day.” Mycroft’s thumb was moving rhythmically back and forth over his shoulder, on top of the blankets. “Nearly cost me my life.”

“But i’dinn’t.”

“No, it did not.” Mycroft sighed. “There was a time that I regretted surviving that. I actually believed the world would be a better place without me in it.”

“S’not true.” He rubbed his cheek against the pillow, more asleep than awake. “Believe me.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft took a sip of his hot whiskey. “It took me a very long time to come to that conclusion. I had a difficult childhood and adolescence. Even university failed to provide me with a place I felt truly myself.”

“S’cus you’re one of a kind.”

Mycroft’s thumb paused. “You’re drunk.”

“M’tired. Not drunk.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying anymore.”

“Bet you were cute at ten…”

“Gregory?” When there was no response, Mycroft gently lifted his hand. “Are you asleep?” Greg shifted slightly, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the pillows and blankets. “You are asleep,” he murmured. Mycroft watched him for a moment, the way his face had softened in his sleep, the loss of lines and age. “You were certainly trouble at ten… Adorable trouble.”


	22. So Anxious For Your Look of Joy and Delight

Mycroft startled awake. Something had disturbed him from sleep, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint the source. He was in his room. At home. The air was dry and warm, clearly he’d left the fire to burn itself out. The daylight peeking through the curtains promised sun, the extra brightness likely due to reflection off fresh snow. It would be bitterly cold today. None of that could account for his sudden wakening. He was cozy beneath the duvet. Though, not entirely comfortable in his clothes instead of pajamas… He was in his clothes… Why had he...

The soft snuffle behind him took him by surprise, and he rolled halfway over his shoulder to find Greg Lestrade. Asleep. In Mycroft’s bed. Wearing Mycroft’s clothes.

He was asleep on his side, having relaxed out of the tight ball in which he’d originally drifted off into a comfortable, vulnerable curl. Both of his arms tucked up near his head, one under the pillow, one over. The knit hat Mycroft had managed to fight onto Greg’s head had remained, slipping back far enough to reveal a tuft of silvering hair. Where he’d been astonishingly pale, a warm flush colored his cheeks and his nose was adorably rosey as well. His level, soft breathing was interrupted by the occasional inspiration that was too mild to be considered a snore. He looked content, gentled, serene. He looked young. He looked… delectable. 

Good Lord.

Mycroft felt his face turn pink.

That Lestrade was asleep at all, in a strange bed, with some nameless person right next to him was an unexpected and unreserved demonstration of trust. Particularly after everything that had happened the night before. The irony that he himself had accidentally slept quite soundly did not escape him. But he really ought to escape his bed before Greg woke to find him staring… awkwardly…

He slid from the bed as quietly as possible, collecting a jumper and slippers on his way down to the ground floor. It seemed, perhaps, cruel to leave him there, when he wouldn’t know where he was or how to get out. But Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to stay. It felt… dangerous.

He made use of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. The morning routine of making coffee and toast soothing his otherwise scattered thoughts. Bolstered with food and fresh caffeine, Mycroft dared assess the state outside of the house. And it was… White. Drifts of fresh, untouched snow created soft waves throughout the back garden and field. Judging by the walls and fences, some of the drifts were three or four feet. He’d wager the roads were completely impassable. They were, effectively, snowed in. It was possible his parents would manage to get through tomorrow, but at the moment, Mycroft was glad to have fully stocked the pantry and petrol in his car.

Come to think of it, there was petrol in Lestrade’s car. Though the man didn’t have a functional mobile phone. That would need to be remedied as soon as possible. Goodness knows if the WiFi failed, Mycroft was likely to leave regardless of the safety risks. He could easily read the morning paper on his tablet. And that might be made more pleasant with a fire in the fireplace. But before he could set himself to the task at hand, Greg Lestrade shuffled into the kitchen.

~

Greg startled awake. Something had woken him from sleep, but for the first few seconds, he really wasn’t sure what it was. He forced his eyes open against very bright light. It wasn’t London light. And it certainly wasn’t light that you’d find in his flat. It was… A cold bright. Snow and sunlight. And the slash of brightness was crossing his face in such a way that he couldn’t pretend it was still an appropriate time to be asleep. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. He felt hungover. His joints were stiff, and his head fuzzy. Why was he wearing a knit hat? He tugged it off and scratched at his scalp. Come to think of it, where the hell was he?

He froze. What was he wearing? These… These weren’t his clothes. This wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t his room. Holy shit, where was he?! He sat up too quickly and hissed his regret for the way it made his head pound. It was a general, all over throb, rather than the sharper pain he’d experienced two nights before. Thank you literal bible bangers. He muttered a curse and squinted at the room. It was… Lovely, if a bit sterile. Like a guest room. There was a visible ensuite, a hearth that needed to be raked out, a large masculine bed - which he was in, and which also had the imprint of another person, which was still warm when he set his palm in it.

For the smallest fraction of a second, he had to bite back the panic of having had too much to drink and making a poor life decision. But the shot of adrenaline brought with it the wave of memories from the night before. The driving, the snow, the ice and falling into the lake, the absolute bitterness of the cold that followed. Then he had to groan again. Fucking hell. He’d acted like an absolute moron. Not understanding that he needed to get rid of his wet clothes, not being able to himself. Oh God, Mycroft removing his belt… He literally fell… Swooned… Christ. And then… 

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He owed Mycroft an apology. He needed to ring in to the office. Bloody hell, he didn’t have a working phone. No time like the present. He hauled himself out of the bed, stretching and popping his spine, before poking his head into the en suite. His clothes weren’t there. Hopefully they were being minded somewhere, but that would mean Mycroft had laundered them, and that was equal parts embarrassing and endearing, and Greg wasn’t sure he could handle any more of Mycroft’s good will.

It wasn’t hard to find the stairs, and the house, which he vaguely remembered from the night before, followed a logical plan. He paused in the sitting room. He didn’t think he’d even seen it on the way in. But it was decorated with tasteful Christmas flare. Colorful, classic, and homey. It reminded him of Millie and Pete’s house, if Millie were forced to use only half of her favorite decorations. Well, if that were the sitting room, then the kitchen would only be down the hall. He took a deep breath and made his way there.

The smell of coffee and toast lingered in the air. And Greg hesitated as Mycroft looked up from the small table in the corner nook. “Uh… Morning.” He ran his fingers through his hair, only just realising it was probably sticking up in messy tufts. “Any chance there’s coffee left?”

Mycroft offered a small smile and unwrapped his hands from his mug. “Of course.”

It had been a polite, tight smile. God, Greg wasn’t really welcome here. He flushed and waved Mycroft off. “I can… Just point me the right direction?”

Mycroft didn’t listen. “Not at all. It’s no real trouble.” He pressed a hand into Greg’s shoulder as he passed behind him. “Do sit down.”

God, his hand was warm. He could feel it through the sweatshirt. Pull it together, Lestrade. You’re not a teenager anymore. He accepted the coffee as Mycroft offeded it, glad to have something to do with his hands, even if it was to use both to hold it. “Ta.”

Mycroft returned to his seat at the small table. He raised a brow, “You don’t wish to sit?”

“I um…” He looked at the coffee, then towards the door. “Thanks, but…”

“Oh.”

Greg swallowed.

“You were hoping to get back to London.”

He nodded.

“I hate to disabuse you of that notion, but I am afraid we are rather snowed in.”

“What?” Greg made his way to the nook, Peering out the window over Mycroft’s shoulder. Sure enough, mounds of fresh, heavy snow coated the back garden.

“In part due to the volume of precipitation, but more due to the roads themselves. It will be impossible to drive. Not today, at any rate,” Mycroft continued.

“Huh…” Ok. Stuck. He was stuck here. For the day. With Mycroft.

“I realise this must be a rather large disappointment. I’m sure we can find ways to avoid each other as-”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg dropped his gaze just as Mycroft lifted his, missing the flash of surprise on his face.

“Pardon?”

He took a step back, seeking the comfort of having something to lean against and settled with the small of his back against the centre island. “I um…” he waved his free hand vaguely between them. “I’m sorry. For yesterday. And for the party. I was… I’m sorry.” Articulate. Brilliant work, Lestrade.

Mycroft blinked. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure I understand.”

Greg winced. “I was. I wasn’t myself. And I was mad about the case. And I took it out on you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

“Ah.”

“And yesterday, I was annoyed and cold and-”

“Obstinate?”

“Yeah,” he felt the corner of his mouth tug back. “Bit of a moron.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “You were out here alone.”

“I didn’t know if the lead was going to pan out. And… Like I said, moron. And then I was rude. And you were just looking out for me and I was more rude-”

“Obstinate,” Mycroft repeated, this time with humor tinging his words.

“And I’m sorry. I just…”

“I understand.”

Greg pressed his lips together. “I’m not normally…”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head slowly. “I apologise.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I do.”

Greg furrowed his brow at the sincerity in Mycroft’s voice and bit back his argument.

“I found myself in a social situation that stretched the limits of my expertise.”

“You… were… uncomfortable?”

Mycroft folded his hands and tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I was uncomfortable. I was, perhaps, envious of your ease within groups, with the holidays, with yourself.”

“I’m not-”

“I was aware that you were disquieted by the case. Clearly there were events outside of work that had upset you. And I was… I do not enjoy feeling inexpert. I responded inelegantly. It was petty-”

“Petty?”

“Quite.”

“Wait,” Greg shook his head. “Sorry, no. You were jealous?”

“Mmn.”

Greg scoffed. “Of what?”

Mycroft frowned at him.

“Sorry, I just. I’m standing here, in your kitchen, in borrowed clothes, because mine are…”

“Being laundered. The washing machine here is rather slow. It will likely take another few hours.”

“Right. So. Borrowed clothes, no phone. I hope you have my wallet. I’m pushing fifty. I’m divorced. My ex is… She’s absconded to Portugal with my daughter, who is the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Eleanor is not the only-”

“Myc. I’m… There’s not… You can’t be jealous of me.”

“And yet.” Mycroft gave a small shrug.

Greg raised both eyebrows incredulously.

A wry smile twisted the corners of Mycroft’s lips.

Greg huffed out a laugh. “Mycroft…”

“You do realise that you flirt, relentlessly without thought, at anyone in range.”

“I…” Greg gaped. “I… It’s not with anyone.”

Mycroft blinked.

Greg blushed. Oh God. His foot was clearly wedged in his mouth again. He covered his face with his hands and bit down on his lip.

“Oh.”

“I um… I…” he cleared his throat and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Yeah.” Suddenly, the bottom of the lake was looking somewhat appealing. “Can we… Maybe let’s pretend that I didn’t say anything.”

“You… regret…”

“No,” Greg groaned. “I have been flirting with you for years.” He clamped a hand over his mouth. Why? Why was he still talking. Shut up, Lestrade. This is going to be the most awkward, snowed-in… 

“Oh.”

“Right.” Greg studied his feet, currently encased in thick wool socks that don’t belong to him. He couldn’t stand around in pajamas all day, particularly if he continued to make a fool of himself. “Did my keys make it back? I have a change of clothes in the boot of my car, and I think I’d act like less of an idiot if I were wearing something of my own.”

Mycroft still looked a bit stunned. As though he hadn’t finished processing everything Greg had let escape. “Of course.” He offered the keys in the open palm of his hand. “Your car has been moved out front. And there are boots next to the side door.”

Greg nodded, retrieved his keys, and escaped outside. The air was sharply cold, the wind biting at his fingers and face. He winced, feeling the bitterness cut through what had been the warmth of his clothes. He wasn’t ready to be in the cold yet. “Bollocks.” He trudged around to the boot of his car and retrieved the duffle bag. He’d taken to keeping a full change of clothes for the odd day that he was exposed to work hazards or he’d been caught in the rain or he’d slept in his office or Sherlock… Regardless of the cause, he had a full change of clothes to make it home. And right now, to get out of borrowed pajamas, he was completely grateful to his forethought. 

When he closed the house door behind himself, in spite of his speed, he was shivering. He left the boots on the mat and lugged the bag into the kitchen. “Is there… Where should I change?” He didn’t exactly want to go back up to Mycroft’s room. It felt overly intimate and he’d spent the night intruding there already.

“There is a lavatory on the other side of the sitting room.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Are you shivering?”

He sniffed and waved him off. “It’s cold out; you’d be shivering too.”

Mycroft hummed. “I’ll start a fire while you change.”

~

He was glad to have something to do as Gregory was changing. It forced him to mind his fingers lest he singe them on the starter fuel. He shouldn’t have let him outside. Clearly he was still quite sensitive to temperature, and the wind outside would add to the chill. He played their conversation over as the paper caught fire. How had it not occurred to him that Lestrade did not behave with Mycroft as he did with everyone else? Clearly an N one study was insufficient. It was rare for him to make such a rudimentary error.

He was carefully dusting his hands as Greg returned. Now dressed in his own denims, shirt, and jumper, he had folded the borrowed clothes and tucked them atop his duffel bag. As edifying as it had been to see Greg in his clothes, properly fitted clothes well suited him, and the deep grey of his jumper was only a slight distraction from the form of the backside of his jeans. The theme of the day was obviously torture.

Greg offered a shy smile as he eyed the growing fire. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He needed something new to do. He needed to stop watching Gregory so closely. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, don’t-” Greg’s stomach chose that time to grumble loudly and his face flushed.

“I fear I’m not much of a cook, but I can surely manage eggs on toast or porridge.”

“I…” He trailed off with a conciliatory nod. “That… Yeah. Thanks.” He set his bag on the couch and looked up suddenly. “Oh, uh… You remember how… Well…” His cheeks turned pink again. “That the annual was. You know. Half?”

Mycroft cocked his head. “I… Do, yes.”

“Um.” Greg reached into his duffle and pulled out a stuffed bear. “I know it’s silly. But they came as a set.”

Mycroft blinked as the bear was placed in his hands. It… It was the Christmas Rupert. Clearly a new make, but a replica of the vintage stuffed bear from his childhood. How…

Greg didn’t seem to notice quite how much he’d surprised Mycroft. He shrugged and continued. “I can donate it, if you don’t want it. But I just thought… Maybe…”

“Thank you.”

A tentative smile started to cross Greg’s face. “Um, yeah. I… I’m sure my phone is dead, but I should at least contact the Yard. And. I-I like Ellie to be able to reach me. If she ever needs it.”

Mycroft nodded and gestured at the phone on the wall. “Help yourself.”

Greg gave him a shy nod and lifted the receiver, punching a quick number and listening to the ring. When it was clear the call went to voicemail, he shot Mycroft a nervous glance. The number. He wanted to leave the phone number.

Mycroft scrawled the number for the house on a scrap of paper and handed it to him, then set the bear on the table so he could start on making some breakfast.

“Hey, Monkey. My phone is broken. Just until I can replace it, you can reach me on this one.”

Mycroft listened as Greg recited the number. There was a long pause. He heard the phone return to the cradle, and silence. Then more silence. He glanced over his shoulder to find Greg staring at the scrap of paper. “Gregory?”

He lifted his eyes. “Myc, this is your number here?”

“It is.”

“Did… did it change? Ever?”

What an odd question. “My parents are rather conventional. I don’t believe that number has changed in my lifetime. Why?” Dear Lord, he looked pale.

“I know this number.”


	23. I'll Be Home In Two More Days

A puff of breath escaped as the back of his thighs hit the cushions of the sofa, he didn’t even know how they’d gotten into the sitting room. His head was absolutely swimming.

“Gregory?”

He blinked. Looking around the room for a moment before settling on Mycroft, crouched in front of him on one knee. “Myc…”

“There you are.”

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

“Oh my God, Myc,” he pressed a palm to his forehead. “Oh God.” 

“Gregory?”

He looked at the number in his hand and back over his shoulder at the kitchen. First the phone. Then the bear. “Holy… The…” He shook the piece of paper at him. “Myc, this!”

Mycroft caught his wrist. “The phone number?”

“Yes. YES!” He clapped his free hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Where’s my wallet?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Wallet!” He snapped his fingers. “My wallet. You have it? You have to have it. I just need…” Mycroft produced his wallet and Greg dug into it, flipping cards and scraps of paper onto the table.

“Gregory, what on earth are you doing?”

“I know it’s in here. I know I still have it.” He tugged an ancient ID card out and then made a little shout of glee as he found what could barely be described as a tattered shred of cardstock. “AH! Look!”

“What is this?”

“Myc, look at it!” He held it out in excitement.

Mycroft took it carefully, looking at the front of what had once been a business card, the ink now chipped and peeled off, lost to water and wear, the corners shredded and bent. All that was left legible was a scrawl of pencil on the back.

“Myc,” Greg grinned.

“This is… the house number.”

Greg nodded. “I have… Kept that since I was ten years old.” He huffed out a laugh. “I think it went through the wash once or twice. I’ve crammed it into more wallets than I can count. I… I don’t even know why I…” He scraped his fingers through his hair. “Do you even understand what that meant… I was…”

Mycroft was watching him carefully. “My father gave you this.”

Greg stopped rambling and looked up. He searched Mycroft’s face and seemingly found something that he’d been missing. And it clicked. And then he was laughing. “Oh my God!”

Mycroft shook his head. “What?”

“Mycroft!” he laughed. “You gave me my first Rupert.” He was grinning. “I… I didn’t know. And I just-” He waved a hand in the direction of the bear, sitting on the table in the kitchen.

A smile curled at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “You remember that.”

“I… ‘Course I do!” Greg grinned and playfully ruffled Mycroft’s hair. And when he received a look of absolute affront, he was laughing again. “Jesus, Myc, you were like yay high. And you were missing a tooth!”

“Yes, well…” Mycroft rose from the floor and sat primly on the edge of the couch. “For all the sense you had then. You weren’t even wearing a hat or gl-” He paused, a short inhale marking a new thought. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

He tilted his head. “Oh dear.”

“What’s oh dear?”

“I… May have... “

“What?”

Mycroft cleared his throat and paced quickly out of the room, leaving Greg on the couch, still grinning ear to ear. He was still wrapping his head around the distant memory when Mycroft returned, holding out a slim box bound with twine. “I had purchased an actual gift for you.”

“An actual gift?” The smile didn’t fade. “Myc, the picture was perfect.”

“Be that as it may…” He waved a hand at the box. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Greg echoed wryly, shaking his head. The twine pulled easily from its bow and Greg peeked into the box. “Gloves?” Black leather gloves, lined with what felt like cashmere. They were butter soft.

“I fear you are never wearing any when I meet you out of doors.”

He never was. He’d given up when he continued to lose them or ruin them or Tori would give out about them. Come to think of it, he’d been contemplating getting something nice for ages.

“You are constantly trying to warm your fingers by blowing on them or flexing them or hiding them in your pockets.”

A different sort of grin pulled at his face. Of all the things for Mycroft Holmes to pay attention to, it was his hands? His hands were nothing special. Blunt, working hands. They were nothing compared with elegant fingers and… Greg blushed. “Noticed that, did you?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I couldn’t fathom why you never purchased a pair for yourself.”

“Thank you. I think I figured I’d probably just lose them,” he admitted with chagrin.

“I would not be above procuring one of those ribbons that would attach them to your coat.”

Greg picked one up in each hand and flapped them as if they were dangling from his jumper sleeves, having flashes of doing the same in the middle of one of his crime scenes. “God that would piss your brother off to no end.” He set them aside.

“He required the same as a child.”

Greg hummed. “Did you?”

Mycroft raised a brow in pique. “Certainly not.”

He grinned at Mycroft, the image of him as a child too adorable to ignore. He hadn’t been serious at that age. Just curious. And innocent. And sincere.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Is that bad?”

“I am simply unused to it being focused in my direction.”

Greg pressed his tongue against his lower lip. “I’m just picturing you at seven.”

“Whatever for?”

“God, you were cute.”

“Pardon?”

“You,” Greg set his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. “Were adorable. And you had cheeks, and a smile like nothing else, and,” he smiled. “Precious.”

“Stop it.”

Greg shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Gregory, please.”

“Uh uh.” He closed his eyes. “It’s there now. You were seven. I think you were wearing tartan braces.”

“Good Lord. Stop.”

“Nope. Missing front tooth. Freckles.”

“I’m begging you.”

Greg ruffled Mycroft’s hair. “Auburn hair.”

“Gregory!” He tried to catch Greg’s hands and missed. “I must insist…”

Greg was laughing. “Make me.” He hadn’t felt so light in ages. This time he reached for Mycroft’s sides, digging his fingers in and eliciting a loud squeak.

Mycroft looked almost as startled as Greg felt by the sound. But he recovered faster. And managed to catch both of Greg’s wrists. His attempt to restrain him, however, was less effective. And he quickly lost his balance, falling forward against him and tumbling them both onto the floor. Greg hit the rug covered hardwood with a thud and a sharp exhale and a lapful of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft braced his weight on his palms and looked down in horror until Greg burst out laughing again. A very cautious, tentative smile that Greg had never seen before lifted the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “Oh dear.”

Greg started giggling. The absurd joy bubbling out of him to the point of tears. “That’s one way to do it.”

“Are you…” Mycroft’s brow quirked, the blithe half-smile still there. “Are you alright?”

“Never better!”

“You didn’t hit your head?”

“No. Christ,” he muttered with a huff. “Come here.” He hooked his palm around the back of Mycroft’s neck and tugged him down the last half foot to kiss him. He felt Mycroft stiffen, maybe from surprise, he certainly hoped not in fear. Then the smallest sigh puffed against his lips and Mycroft was kissing him back. It was tentative and sweet and Mycroft’s lips were soft against his. And God was it good. Fucking hell, why hadn’t he done this before? He let his fingers curl into Mycroft’s hair and sealed their mouths with a muted groan. By the time he pulled back for some much needed air, he’d managed to make a mess of the man in his lap. And Greg wanted to see that kiss flushed expression every day going forward.

Mycroft heaved a sigh and blinked his eyes open, staring down at him for a long, quiet moment. “I worry you did, in fact, hit your head rather hard.”

Another chuckle burst out of him. “I have wanted to do that for forever. And if I needed sense knocked into me to do it…” He tucked his lower lip between his teeth.

Mycroft hummed as his expression moved wistful, then somehow melancholy, his thumb stroking gingerly across the crest of Greg’s cheek.

Greg caught his hand, pressing a light kiss to the back of his fingers. “Alright, love?”

Mycroft blushed instantly and cleared his throat. Saved from answering by the house phone ringing loudly in the kitchen. “Quite.” He scrambled up, less graceful than usual. And darted into the kitchen to answer the phone.

~

He cleared his throat and took a steadying breath before lifting the receiver. “Good afternoon.”

“Oh. Um. Hi… Uh…”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. He recognized that voice. “Eleanor?”

“Mister… Holmes?”

“It is. I suspect you wish to speak to your father.”

There was a long pause. “I do…”

“Gregory? It’s Eleanor.”

Greg was still smiling pleasantly as he took the phone and Mycroft felt it was time to busy himself. He was going to make breakfast. He had said as much. That was a safe thing to do with his hands. Not that his culinary skills were notable. But he could fry an egg. And make toast.

“Hey, Ellie. Everything ok? … Y-yeah. Uh huh.” He glanced up at Mycroft and blushed. “No. It was wor-It was… Yeah, well. You… You’re where? But… No. I’m sure she wasn’t terribly impressed… Oh, n-no. Ell-” He huffed out a laugh. “So where?... Right. No. I’m… I’m not really in London.” He shifted, rolling his shoulders up as he scraped a hand through his hair. “I didn’t… Well, we’re kinda stuck here because of the snow too… I uh. Maybe tomorrow?... No. Ellie, don’t be… I didn’t fall in the Thames, ok?... Hopefully tomorrow too… We can talk about it… Don’t tell your mum. She’ll kill me… Yes, yes of course. I love you too, Monkey. I will…” He shot Mycroft a wry smile. “I’ll do that too… Talk to you soon.”

Mycroft refocused his attention on the skillet and the egg that was nearly done. He oughtn’t have been eavesdropping in the first place. He delicately lifted the edges of the egg and depressed the lever on the toaster. And then nearly jumped out of his skin as a warm palm stroked down his back.

“Sorry,” Greg stepped back, his hands held up in a conciliatory manner. “Didn’t mean-”

“Quite alright.”

“Is it?”

“I was… Sufficiently distracted that I didn’t hear you.”

Greg crossed his arms comfortably and leaned his hip against the counter. “Ok. Right. And you’re ticklish.”

Mycroft raised a sharp brow. “Don’t you dare.”

“Ok.” Greg grinned. Mycroft did not believe him in the least. “Ellie wanted me to tell you hi. So. Hi.”

He found it hard to keep from smiling. “Hello.”

“She also wants to know why we’re snowed in together.”

“She’s an inquisitive child.”

“Mmn.” Greg reached for the toast as it popped up, taking a quick bite while it was hot. “Wonder where she gets that.”

“Mystery for the ages, I suspect.”

“She’s also still in London.” He watched Greg bite back a self-satisfied smile. “Turns out Lutton got some snow too. And there were delays and cancellations.”

“How unfortunate.”

“And her mother was less than polite for the rebooking process, and shockingly, there were just no seats left until Boxing Day.”

“Dreadful.”

“Yeah,” he took another bite of the toast. “She is.”

“Gregory.” He took the toast from him and set it on the plate. “While I am under no illusion that your former wife is entirely pleasant in all circumstances…”

Greg coughed. It was, undoubtedly to cover a snort, but Mycroft elected to ignore it. “That’s an understatement.”

“Perhaps we can elect to leave her unmentioned here?” He slid the egg onto the toast and collected a fork, setting it on the table with an unsubtle gesture.

Greg took the hint and sat. “I will do my darndest.” Mycroft hummed and finished making himself a cup of tea before joining Greg at the table. “So… Snowed in here today then?”

“Mmn,” Mycroft traced the handle of his mug with the tip of his index finger. “How desperate.”

Greg paused with the fork halfway to his mouth and blinked. “Terrible. What on earth are we gonna do?”

He had ideas, Mycroft was quite sure, based on the look in his eyes. But then again, Mycroft had plans as well. “I thought, perhaps, we might take a walk around the grounds.”

“You want to go outside?”

“I do.”


	24. Simple Pleasures Are Made Special Too

They managed a two hour walk covering very little distance. The snow was heavy and had drifted unpredictably around the grounds. One step was ankle deep, the next up to the hip. Walking was a slow and cold process. Made colder when Mycroft felt it necessary to throw a snowball at Greg. He couldn’t let it go unrepaid. So after snow managed to melt down the back of Greg’s jumper, Mycroft ended up in a snowbank with Greg on top of him. He hadn’t complained when the surprise tumble was followed with a firm kissing. And Greg was now aware that Mycroft was more likely to believe that revenge was a dish best served cold… Like snow stuffed under the hem of a coat. By the time they made it back inside, they were both damp and cold and grinning like the besotted idiots they were.

“If I didn’t know better,” Greg hung his coat on a peg by the door. “I’d think you were trying to make all of my clothes unwearable.” He gestured to the wet patches on his jumper and the knees of his jeans.

“Do you know better?” Mycroft raised a brow.

“Ha!” Greg grinned and shivered.

“I kept you outside too long.”

“M’fine,” Greg shrugged, but sniffed at the same time, making his argument rather pointless.

Mycroft insisted he shower, in very warm water this time, and get back into dry and warm clothes. Greg put up a token protest that the shower was to be alone. He redressed in the clothes he’d appropriated from Mycroft the night before - they were warm and soft, and something in the way Mycroft looked at him when he passed by in the sitting room told him that it was the right choice. While Mycroft made use of the shower, Greg made toasted sandwiches and cocoa. Finishing just in time for Myc to stoke the fire back to blazing. They ate on the couch, listening to something classical and Christmassy on the record player.

It was probably only early afternoon, and Greg found himself feeling full, content, and comfortably drowsy. But still a bit chilled from their walk. Before he could move in search of something warmer, a blanket settled around his shoulders. He smiled up in surprise. “Mind reading?”

“Merely observing. You shivered.”

Greg chuckled. “Bet you observe more than your brother.”

“I do.”

“Somehow you don’t come off like a prat the way he does. I’m gonna be rude and put my feet on your couch.” He tucked his up under the blanket and leaned his head back, resting comfortably along the back of the sofa.

“I prefer to think I’m not so much of a prat as he is either.”

“Nah,” Greg grinned and closed his eyes. “I can tell you’re both competitive, but he’s got you beat by a mile there.”

“May I ask a question?”

“G’wan.”

“It’s rather personal.”

Greg snorted. “I’m a bit of an open book. But if there’s something you don’t know, I’m happy to tell you.”

Mycroft hesitated.

Greg furrowed his brow and rocked his head to the side, blinking at Mycroft’s uncertainty. “You can ask.” 

Mycroft forced a smile.

“If I don’t want to, I don’t have to tell you. But I’m not going anywhere. Can’t really.” Greg shrugged. “Stuck here now.”

“That Christmas…” Mycroft trailed off. It was unusual for him to be imprecise, and Greg was worried he was about to balk on actually asking the question. “You were…”

“Ten.”

“Pardon?”

“I was ten. How old were you?”

“Seven. Very nearly.”

A warm smile stretched across Greg’s face and he shifted, resting an arm on the back of the couch so he could turn his body towards Mycroft. “Very nearly? You looked very nearly like a troublemaker. When’s your birthday then?”

“I… Was not, in fact, a troublemaker.” Mycroft paused again, considering that answer and seemed to reaffirm that it was the case. “And the twenty-seventh.”

“You’re a Christmas baby.”

“I suppose.”

“I bet your mum had a little santa hat for you when you were born.”

“I don’t think…”

“Dressed you up like a Christmas pudding for your first birthday.”

“She wouldn’t have…”

Greg laughed and propped his head against his hand. “Are you sure? I’m a detective. I could find the pictures.”

“There are certainly no pictures. Sherlock and I…”

“Oh, that’s the trick then,” Greg clapped a hand on Mycroft’s thigh. “Sherlock has them. Where’s his old room?”

“He does not!” Mycroft was very nearly smiling. “He…”

Greg raised a brow. “Scary when you think about it. He’d have kept them.”

“Mutually assured destruction.”

“Sounds like it.” He squeezed Mycroft’s thigh, leaving his hand resting on the man’s leg; enjoying the way he seemed to have lost himself in the conversation, the hesitation from earlier having melted away. Hell, Greg liked talking to Mycroft, even if he got the feeling that most people didn’t. Most people definitely didn’t get to see Mycroft smile. Or blush.

“You accuse me of being a troublemaker.” His eyes flickered to where Greg’s hand was resting warmly against his knee. “And yet you skillfully avoid questions by distracting me from asking in the first place.”

“So sorry,” Greg murmured without a bit of contrition.

Mycroft’s lips twitched in effort to suppress a smile then his expression sobered. “That Christmas… When we ran into each other. You were…” He was picking his words carefully, and visibly struggling. It made Greg uneasy. Mycroft didn’t struggle with words. Everything was smooth and eloquent. “You were running from…”

Oh. That. “I was, yeah.” Greg scratched at the back of his neck. Fleeing really. He had spent years trying not to think about that day, while at the same time desperately clinging to the faith that night had instilled in humanity. “You know, I really don’t know where I’d have ended up if I hadn’t run into you two.”

“Where were you going?”

“In the taxi? My Aunt Millie’s. Well, Millie’s. She’s not actually my aunt. She’d been my mum’s best friend… And… I liked her. She’s always been…” The corner of his mouth pulled back into a half smile. “Kind. I think.”

“Had been?”

Greg winced. He didn’t begrudge Mycroft the question. “I’d lost my mum about a year prior?” He knew he wasn’t unsure of the date. He’d never forget it. “Millie and mum had worked together. And she was… Really good to me. Still is. Her and Pete.”

“She raised you?”

“Yeah.” Greg blew out a breath. “Her and Pete. Went there Christmas Eve and never left. Pete’s the reason I wanted to be a cop in the first place.” 

“And…” Mycroft rested his hand cautiously on top of Greg’s where it still sat on his knee. “Before the taxi. Where were you going?”

He’d known the question was coming. Can’t avoid things like that forever. He closed his eyes with a sigh and ran his hand backwards through his hair. “Anywhere else.” He wasn’t trying to be glib, that was all he’d really considered at the time. It was physically painful when Mycroft’s hand left his, not unexpected, disappointing. But when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t met with an expression of recoil. Mycroft looked… heartbroken. Greg forced a smile he didn’t feel. “It was what it was.”

Mycroft’s thumb brushed over the crest of his cheek, tracing the long-healed bruising with delicate care. “And yet… You love Christmas.”

“Myc,” he sighed. “I woke up in a warm bed, on Christmas morning, in a house with a tree and lights and presents with my name on them. I had a bigger breakfast than I’d eaten in months. Millie…” He looked away. It was the cruelest irony of all of it. “Millie couldn’t have her own kids, and she and Pete… They just… They treated me like I was theirs.” He swallowed and took a fortifying breath. “I’m not stupid. I know how my story would have ended. But instead... “ He gestured aimlessly. “I ran into someone who just gave. Freely. And then you… God,” he huffed out a laugh. “You gave me your bloody Rupert. No questions. Just, like it would make you happier than anything.”

“It did make me happy.”

“Then how can you not love Christmas?”

“Sherlock was born just after that,” Mycroft offered bluntly.

“Oh, I get it then,” Greg caught Mycroft’s hand as it fell to his side, interlacing their fingers.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “The pregnancy nearly cost my mother her life. She wasn’t home for that Christmas. And when she was home, a few weeks later, it was without my brother. It was a difficult time for our family. And we were… I don’t believe we were quite the same.”

“We never are.”

Mycroft frowned. “Then I met you, again, I suppose, on Christmas Eve, twenty-five years later.”

“Oh God, yeah,” Greg squeezed their fingers together. “Christ that was a night.”

“You… Stayed. For hours.”

“C’mon, Myc, what was I going to do? Leave you there by yourself?”

“Most would.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah, but…”

“Your ex…”

“Is to go unmentioned at your request,” Greg warned.

“You should have gone home.”

“I was exactly where I should I have been,” he insisted with a laugh. “Speaking of where people should of been, were you just out, walking in the snowstorm? With a sled and rope?”

“N-no.”

“Sleepwalking?”

“No I-”

“Planning on fishing?”

“Well I made off with the catch of the day,” Mycroft snapped.

Greg raised both eyebrows and pressed his mouth in a tight line. It didn’t work. He only managed a few seconds before he burst out laughing. Mycroft couldn’t keep from joining in, and they were nearly collapsing in a chuckling heap on the couch together. “Come on, Myc,” Greg managed finally. “Why were you at the lake? You said yourself that you hate that place.”

“It is nearly too strange to articulate.”

“Some arsehole, dressed as Santa, brained me with a bible the other day. You’re not going to shock me.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Mycroft’s fingers reached to card through Greg’s hair. “Someone hit you? With a bible?!”

“They were robbing the church! Stop avoiding the question,” Greg laughed. “Why were you there? Oh God. Is there CCTV? Do I need to worry about Sherlock getting his hands on film of me falling into a lake?”

“No. No! Of course not.” Mycroft shook his head with distaste. “I… I had something of a nightmare.”

“And you manage your nightmares with… toboggan jogs through the woods?”

“No.”

Greg sucked his lower lip between his teeth. “Has no one explained the warm cup of milk?”

“No, I-”

“A hot water bottle and a tea?”

“Gregory.”

“A good wank.”

“Gregory, please.”

Greg couldn’t help the grin. Winding Mycroft up was slowly becoming his new favorite activity. “Please what?”

“Behave.”

Oh. Behave? That was definitely not what Mycroft wanted, not if that reluctant smile was to be believed. Greg leaned forward, slowly encroaching upon Mycroft’s space. “And what if,” he set a hand on the cushion next to Mycroft’s hip. “I don’t want to?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to object, but quickly closed it. Whether it was because he couldn’t find the words, or he no longer had an objection was unclear.

“Do I get a time out?” Greg inched forward, crowding Mycroft further against the arm of the sofa, a gorgeous pink blush spreading across his cheeks. Greg’s mouth pulled back into a lop-sided grin. “Sit in the corner? Think about what I’ve done?” 

“Might be… prudent…”

He shifted forward onto his knees then right into Mycroft’s lap, spreading his thighs to enclose Mycroft’s hips. “Oh no. Here I am, sitting in the corner of the couch. How long am I supposed to stay here?”

“I… It… depends?”

“Oh?” Greg bit his lip as the flush seemed to reach Mycroft’s ears.

“Y-yes.” Mycroft’s palms lifted to frame Greg’s hips. “On attrition…”

He watched Mycroft’s eyes dart to his mouth and back up. “Might be here a while then.” He ducked his head, stopping shy of kissing him outright.

“Oh?”

“I’m not feeling terribly sorry.”

“Neither am I.” Mycroft pressed up, closing the distance and brushing a soft kiss across Greg’s lips. Greg hummed a low approval, shifting to take the stretch out of the contact. Then he groaned as long fingers slid through is hair, gripping and tugging him closer.

When the fairy lights turned on in sequence, setting the room aglow with color, they were still sharing one seat in the naughty corner.

~

Greg emerged from the ensuite, sliding his arms into the robe that had been hanging on the back of the door. “Hey, I’m going to make us breakfast. What do you want?”

Mycroft stretched and sighed, settling back against the pillow. “Just toast, please.”

Greg raised a brow. Toast… The man had hardly eaten enough for yesterday day, let alone for the night. “Toast and?”

Mycroft blinked. “Just toast… And tea?”

Greg rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Didn’t ask what you think you should have, love.” Mycroft’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like a kid, caught out in a lie. “I asked what you wanted.”

“I…” His eyes briefly flit to Greg’s lips and a dusting of pink crested his cheeks.

“Ah,” Greg grinned and leaned over the bed to press a soft, lingering kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “You only need to ask,” he murmured. Then he straightened. “And you need to eat something. I’ve plans for you, and you can’t be wasting away.”

A small laugh burbled out of him that seemed to surprise him as much as Greg. “Very well. Might my toast be french?”

“That I can do. Take your time getting up,” he squeezed Mycroft’s foot as he passed the end of the bed. “It’ll take me a good twenty minutes.”

Mycroft hummed lazily and drew the covers back up to his shoulders. “I ought to have you installed in my house back in London.”

“Lost the instruction manual ages ago, but you might get lucky.” He winked at him and headed down to the kitchen.

Greg enjoyed cooking. It was the type of activity that he could lose himself in, make a few redeemable mistakes, and have a shareable finished product on the other end. He’d spent time learning to make edible things with the bare minimal ingredients. He’d spent time devising meals to woo dates, and for romantic dinners. He’d spent time cooking to feed a happy family. Living on his own, he didn’t cook as much. His hours made it hard, and it wasn’t quite as fun without someone to share it with. He did cook for Millie and Pete at least once a month. And whenever Ellie was with him…

He flicked on the kitchen radio, finding a Christmas station, and went about finding the ingredients and supplies he’d need. He was cracking eggs to Run Run Rudolph, mixing to Winter Wonderland, and the butter hit the hot pan with a sizzle to Santa Baby. The bacon was nearly ready and an ample number of french toast slices were cooked, the kettle was about to click off. All that was missing was Mycroft to help him eat this, and Greg was now singing along with Bing for the refrain of White Christmas.

He heard the footsteps in the sitting room over the music. “Hey, Myc! Hurry up and get it while it’s hot!”

The sound he received in return was sharply surprised, distinctly female, and not entirely friendly.

He turned around, skillet in one hand, spatula in the other and immediately regretted not getting properly dressed before heading for the kitchen, or maybe he regretted coming downstairs at all. “Uh… Hi…”

“Hello. You must be Gregory Lestrade.”


	25. A Thrill Of Hope

Greg stood there, very quietly, recognising that he wasn’t in his own home, and he wasn’t actually in Mycroft’s. He was in Mycroft’s parents’ home, and he was wearing Mycroft’s old clothes, Mycroft’s robe, Mycroft’s socks, standing in the kitchen with food for two, early enough in the morning to make it clear that he’d been there all night. He felt the color creeping into his cheeks. “Uh… Hi?”

He was still holding the skillet and the spatula. Crap. Behind him, the kettle clicked over and he huffed out a laugh. “One… Um… Just…” He plonked the skillet back on the burner, listening to the bacon start to sizzle again and abandoned the spatula in favor of pouring the kettle for Mycroft’s tea, and adding the rest to the french press. “Um… Can I…” He waved vaguely at the tea and coffee.

The woman’s mouth curved in the beginning of a familiar expression and Greg found himself blushing again. “Tea, dear.”

Mycroft came flying into the kitchen, his slippers skidding on the tiles as he hastily tied the sash of an overly worn robe. “Mummy…”

Greg locked eyes with him as the woman turned. Mummy? His eyebrows shot up, what the hell, Mycroft? Mycroft’s mouth pressed into an apologetic line as he gave his mother a hug, pressing a quick kiss to each cheek.

“Mikey, dear. You didn’t forget we would be home today, did you?”

“No, mummy. Of course not.”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “Be a good lad and help your father with our bags? The walk is a bit slippy, and he has that knee.”

Mycroft nodded and flashed a nervous glance towards Greg. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Don’t worry. Gregory and I have a good deal to catch up on in your absence.”

Given the heat in his face, Greg was worried he’d managed to turn beet red. He cleared his throat. Right. He was going to have to sacrifice Mycroft’s tea. “Tea, yeah? Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Honey.”

“Right,” Greg turned and stared at the enormity of the kitchen behind him. He didn’t know where the honey was. Bollocks. “Uh…”

“Cupboard on the left there.”

“Ah, right.” He retrieved the honey and handed over Mycroft’s mug. “I just ought to…” The bacon was really starting to smell done. He plated their breakfast, feeling a critical set of eyes boring into his back until he finished. Once he’d depressed the plunger on the cafetiere, he’d lost all excuses to avoid her. So he poured himself a mug of coffee and turned around to face the music. “Sorry. Just needed…”

“Some fortifying caffeine?” she asked wryly. “Regardless of the nonsense you’ve heard from my boys, I don’t actually bite.”

Greg snorted into his coffee, noting the pleased look of mischief he received in return. It reminded him of Sherlock more than Mycroft. “I’ve not heard a bad word against you.” It wasn’t a lie. Frankly, something told him that lying to Mrs. Holmes was a speedy road into trouble. Mycroft tended to avoid discussing family, outside of Sherlock’s welfare, and Sherlock wouldn’t mention his parents beyond bitching that they were in town. The only thing Greg knew of Mummy Holmes was that she managed to produce two boys that were essentially geniuses. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

She took his offered hand with a firm shake. “I’ll have none of that. You’ve known Sherlock for more than a decade, and Lord knows how long you and Mycroft have been canoodling. You’ll call me Violet or Mummy.”

Greg felt the red suffuse his cheeks again. Right. Ok. “Yes, ma’am.” She clucked her tongue at him. “I uh, most people just call me Greg. Myc… he seems to like Gregory. Sherlock just uses Lestrade or some other name that starts with G as it pops into his head or ‘hey you’ if it suits him. I…” He laughed nervously. “I’m fairly flexible.” He decided that a scalding sip of coffee would be the best course of action, so he could forcibly stop his mouth from running off.

“Never let it be said that my sons don’t have a type.”

Greg choked. He was still sputtering when Mycroft dashed back into the room. He rapidly took in the expression on his mother’s face as well as the near strangled look Greg was wearing and frowned. “Mummy.” It carried a tone of exasperation and warning. 

And it gave Greg just a moment to collect himself. He took a breath and forced a smile. “Breakfast?”

“Please.”

“Would you like any…” Oh God. Mummy? Violet? It didn’t sound right. “I can make more. Or something else?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” her smile was coy and knowing. “Your father and I had breakfast before we left London.”

“Of course you did,” Mycroft muttered. Greg blinked and turned his back to collect the plates and set them on the table, a safe distance from Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft’s current stare-off. He abandoned his coffee and refilled the kettle, and set it to boil. He could make some more tea for Myc. Yup. Good use of his skills.

“You know the schedule for the rest of the week, dear?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, long-suffering. “I shan’t be able to stay for Boxing Day. Having come down so early this year.”

“Hmm,” she hummed into her tea. “And will Detective Inspector Lestrade be staying as long as well?”

“Mummy, please.”

“Only so I can be sure to have enough places set for Christmas dinner. Be sure there is enough food...” Her eyes ran over Mycroft’s frame.

Mycroft’s eyes darted to Greg everso briefly. Greg busied himself adding milk to Mycroft’s tea. “We have yet to discuss…”

“Surely, he’ll be staying. The roads are desperate yet. If we hadn’t a driver, we couldn’t have possibly made it home today.”

“I don’t want to assume…”

“And no one should be traveling on Christmas Day.”

Mycroft visibly frowned. “And yet Sherlock will-”

Greg had to intercede. Now or never. He could be polite. And de-escalate whatever was going on here. He set a hand on Mycroft’s back, just where he’d pulled his spine taught in that achingly upright way of his and handed him the tea. “I would love to stay.”

Mummy made a pleased, if not condescending sound that made Mycroft bristle.

“But, I have to be back at the Yard on the twenty-sixth. And I’d love the company for the drive back into town.” He raised a hopeful brow. “So you wouldn’t even need to drag one of your drivers out to collect you.”

“That may… work…” Mycroft’s expression softened.

“I’m a good driver,” Greg started to smile. “I could even turn on the lights and sirens if you want.”

Mycroft blinked a thank you. “That is unlikely to be necessary.”

“Unlikely, but that’s not a no.” Greg grinned.

Mummy set her mug down rather heavily. “Well, I think I shall help your father unpack. Lord only knows what he’s doing with his clothes at the moment. Needs constant supervision, that man. And perhaps a nap. It’s lovely to be back in one’s own home.”

Mycroft stood stiffly, watching her make her way out of the kitchen and through the sitting room, eventually making it out of sight. Then he sighed, his shoulders dropping incrementally. “My apologies. I didn’t think they were back so early today.”

Greg ran his palm slowly down Mycroft’s back. “S’alright. Just make sure I’ve got my own clothes on when I meet your dad, eh?”

Mycroft blushed.

“C’mon. Your breakfast is getting cold. And I better not have trashed your mum’s kitchen if you’re not gonna eat it.”

~

Mycroft had reluctantly eaten his breakfast, the sudden appearance of his parents reducing his appetite sharply. And no matter how delicious the food Gregory had made him - and it was so perfectly rich and delightful - Mummy’s judgment was enough to sully even that. Furthermore, he had no intention of subjecting Gregory to any additional distasteful interactions with his parents. Certainly, his father would be instantly fond of Greg. They would possibly get on much like a house on fire. However, his mother…

He convinced Greg, rather easily - there wasn’t much convincing required - to retire to his room. Greg insisted on cleaning the kitchen first. He wouldn’t leave a dish unwashed if he was invading someone’s holiday cooking space. And however much Mycroft assured him that there would be someone to reshelve the dishes, Greg just grinned and teased and did it himself. It was quite infuriating.

After the carefully executed retreat from the kitchen, Mycroft insisted on showering and Greg, in turn, insisted on wearing his own clothing. And once clean and dressed, bed made, room tidied, Mycroft was convinced to sit, to settle in one of the armchairs in his room, and read. Not for work, but for leisure. And Mycroft agreed, mostly because Gregory had built a fire and dragged the chair close to the hearth and tossed a large cushion on floor to sit on. The idea of a few hours spent reading, basking in the warmth of a wood-burning fire, while idly running his fingers through Gregory’s hair was nothing short of genius.

“You aren’t reading your book at all.”

Greg hummed and tipped his head further back against the cushion next to Mycroft’s thigh in a blatant request for further touch. “It’s a Ludlum.” He closed his eyes as Mycroft twisted sections of hair between his fingers. “Don’t need to actually read it.”

“Does that not defeat the purpose of sitting here at all?” Mycroft smiled contentedly. This was one of the more agreeable days off he’d experienced, now that the unpleasantness around breakfast was over. Peaceful. Comfortable. He turned the page of his book and returned his hand to Gregory’s head, curling his fingers and dragging them up through his hairline to the crown of his head. 

Greg shivered and blinked his eyes open, a delicious flash of heat visible. “Not at all.”

Dangerous. Mycroft’s smile drew back further.

“Knock, knock!”

The call only barely preceded the bedroom door bursting open, and in no way was accompanied by an actual knock or invitation. Mycroft startled, his book snapping shut in his palm. Greg, to his credit, stayed exactly where he was, his book open in his lap, head tilted towards the door.

“Mikey, dear, do you have enough towels for yourself and your guest?”

Mycroft stared for a beat, not quite believing his mother had just stormed his room. The door had been closed. Privacy, in this house, was to be respected. Had always been respected. “Y-yes?”

“Well, I brought some extras for you. What are you boys up to? Reading are we?” She set the towels on the end of the bed.

Mycroft’s face twisted in disbelief. He struggled to keep his mouth from gaping. “We are.”

“Don’t forget to rake out the hearth when you’re done. And dinner in another three hours.”

“Yes, Mummy,” he forced through gritted teeth.

“No snacking in the meantime.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Holmes,” Greg said politely.

It got him a warning glare and a sharp cluck of the tongue, but thankfully, it seemed to draw her meandering to a close. “I’ll hollar when dinner is ready.” Then she was out the door and it clicked shut in her wake.

Mycroft continued to stare at the door, completely aghast. He wasn’t some teenager having a boy over for the first time! Not that any such thing had evoked such a reaction from his mother at that stage in his youth.

“Isn’t your mum attentive,” Greg murmured mildly.

Mycroft groaned and let his book open and rest on his face. This was horribly embarrassing. Terrifyingly humiliating. He could hear Gregory move, the soft click of the door lock, then the shuffled of fabric back next to the chair. “I’ll have you know that I have expired.”

Greg chuckled. It sounded as though he was back on the cushion. “No you’re not.”

“Death by mortification.”

“I don’t care what you say, you can’t read like that.”

He sighed dramatically. “That was utterly shameful.” He slid the book from his face and blinked down at Greg’s smiling face. “I have no idea where she developed such atrocious behavior.”

Greg sat up on his knees, setting his hands on Mycroft’s thighs. “You know, now that she’s dropped by for a hand check.” He let his palms slide slowly upwards. “And we were minding our own business, reading, like good lads…”

“Gregory…”

“We could take this opportunity to… not read.”

He sucked in a breath as Greg’s thumbs pressed into the creases of his hips. “You are a troublemaker.”

“Absolutely.” He stretched his hands, gripping Mycroft’s hips and tugging him forward in the chair.

“Greg! My… My parents are home.”

“This is only gonna work if you can keep quiet.” He raised a playful brow. “Do you think you can keep quiet?”

“I…” He bit back a groan as rather clever fingers slid under his shirt to skate along his abdomen. “You are… wicked.”

A bold smile stretched across his face. “I’ve got the rest of today to land myself on the naughty list… I really intend to succeed.”

“I…” he lost his breath in a huff. “Have every faith.”

~

Dinner was reasonably pleasant. Greg enjoyed the food, and most of the company. At Mycroft’s advice, he hadn’t brought up the last time he’d met Mr. Holmes, no, wait, Robert. Something they could discuss just the two of them, later, when Mummy had gone to bed. Speaking of Mummy Holmes, Greg felt he had the size of her already. Clever, sure. Not as clever as her sons, for sure. But equally as manipulative. He also figured out, quite quickly, where Sherlock got his petty streak from. And quite possibly where Mycroft had learned to be so masterfully aloof.

With dinner over, the kitchen tidied, Mycroft retired to the sitting room with a glass of brandy. His father had a lovely scotch that was offered all around, and Greg couldn’t stand to turn it down. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was soft Christmas music emanating from the record player. The fairy lights were on. It was all rather magical. Greg was pleasantly warm and full, but Mycroft was starting to doze, his head listing to the side, cushioned on Greg’s arm and the back of the sofa.

After a moment, Robert let out a soft snore, then startled himself awake again. He glanced around the room, then smiled gently at Greg. “I think I’m for bed,” he murmured.

Greg nodded. “I don’t think we’ll be far behind you.”

He got a loving pat on his arm as Robert passed by. “Don’t be up when Santa comes. And make sure there are biscuits out.”

Greg grinned and raised his glass. “Yes, Sir.”

He waited for Robert to make his way to bed. Then another few minutes to finish his scotch. And only when he felt at risk of falling asleep himself, he ran his palm down Mycroft’s arm and turned, murmuring into the top of his head. “Hey, Myc…” Mycroft grumbled and curled tighter into his side. It made Greg smile. “C’mon. It’s bedtime.”

“Hmm?” Mycroft blinked himself awake, squinting at the flickering firelight.

“Bedtime. Your dad said Santa won’t come if we stay down here.”

He frowned. “He did not.”

Greg kissed the furrow of his brow. “He did. And I believe him. Up. We should go to bed.”

He grumbled but managed to ease himself off the couch and up onto his feet, frowning again as Greg wandered into the kitchen. “Where are you going?”

Greg came back with a plate and glass, setting the milk and cookies on the table. “For Santa,” he said with a grin.


	26. And The Bells Were Ringing Out

Greg woke slowly. Unlike the startling awareness of the previous morning, he felt cozy and calm and sleepy and at home. The warm press of another body along his front, wrapped in his arms didn’t seem shocking; it felt just right. He sighed out the last of his drowsiness along the nape of Mycroft’s neck and nosed against the pale skin he found there. “Mornin’.”

Mycroft hummed in return, curling further in and drawing Greg with him.

He had no problem with the idea of a good cuddle and a slow start to the morning. “Happy Christmas.”

“Hm?”

He pressed a light kiss just behind Mycroft’s ear. “Happy Christmas. It’s Christmas… Finally, I think.”

“What?” Mycroft sat up abruptly, taking the warmth of the blankets with him. “Oh no. What time is it?”

Greg stretched and looked at his watch. “Just gone nine.”

“Oh Lord.”

“Wait, come back,” Greg reached for him as he swung his legs off the bed. “Myc,” he laughed. “Where are you going?”

“It’s Christmas and we are still in bed. And he’ll be here in less than an hour and then mummy will be absolutely insufferable.” He tugged on a robe. “You have to get up.”

Greg continued to laugh, flopped over on his back, and tucked his arms behind his head. “Other than phoning Ellie and Millie and Pete, and maybe dinner this afternoon with your family, I don’t think there’s anything I  _ have _ to do today.”

“Up.”

“Make me.” He grinned. There was something infinitely amusing about Mycroft being flustered.

Mycroft frowned and made the mistake of edging too close to the bed. “Gregory-”

There was no way he was actually awake. At least not fully awake. Because on a good day, Greg was completely certain he couldn’t get the drop on Mycroft Holmes. But this morning, Greg not only managed to surprise him, he managed to get his arms around his waist and roll him onto the bed. And in a blink, Greg had a very startled looking Mycroft tangled in the blankets. “Myc.” He lifted a brow, a lop-sided smile pulling across his face. “It’s Christmas.”

“I know.”

“Happy Christmas.”

“You already said-”

“Not properly.”

“Properly?” Oh man, he was pouting. Mycroft was pouting.

Pouting was going to be a problem. For starters, no one should be pouting on Christmas morning. And besides, that pout was adorable. And Greg was absolutely pleased to clear it from Mycroft’s face with the careful application of his own. An action which seemed to surprise Mycroft for the second time that morning, if the startled, soft mmnpf was to be believed. But as much as Mycroft didn’t startle easily, he definitely didn’t startle for long. Greg groaned at the gentle press of tongue against his lips, then against his own. And his lower lip was tugged just enough between Mycroft’s teeth as he pulled away, that Greg needed a moment, letting his forehead rest against Myc’s before he smiled. “Like I said. Happy Christmas.”

“Properly,” Mycroft murmured.

“Exactly.”

~

If Mycroft was later joining his parents in the kitchen than usual, it was all because he was in a better mood. They had showered, not separately; dressed, separately; and Greg sent Mycroft ahead to the kitchen with strict instructions on making coffee so that he couldn’t possibly embarrass himself in front of Mycroft’s mother again.

“Mikey, dear, if you’re making tea, will you make a pot?”

He bit his tongue and nodded. “Yes, Mummy.”

“Where is your friend? Will he be joining us soon?”

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was a blatant attempt at fishing for information, and he was in the security services for God’s sake. “You know his name. Gregory is shaving.”

“That’s precious.”

He visibly pressed his lips together then blinked into an insincere smile. “Is it?”

“Of course, dear. Your brother will be here any moment. Make sure there is tea enough to go round.”

“Of course.” He made the coffee first, letting it steep while he reboiled the kettle for the tea. 

He had only finished pouring the water when Greg appeared in the kitchen, the furrow in his brow disappearing into a smile as his gaze fell on Mycroft. “Myc. Happy Christmas.”

The blush was instantaneous. An unfortunate byproduct of low pitch of his voice and the new association with the blithe, festive greeting. Mycroft cursed his lack of self-control and leveled him with a stern glare. “Gregory. How lovely that you have deigned to join us.”

Greg didn’t seem bothered at all by the tone. He depressed the plunger on the cafetiere and poured himself a mug of coffee. “Wanted to make myself presentable for your family and all.”

He had shaved, Mycroft noted. And done… something to his hair. And he was in his jumper and slacks. And it looked good on him. Mycroft had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Well done you.”

Greg’s eyes flicked quickly to the space over Mycroft’s shoulder and his smile changed to something flatly polite as he raised his mug. “Good morning.”

“Ah, good morning, Gregory. Don’t you look sharp today. Doesn’t he look sharp, Myc?”

Mycroft took a slow, deep breath in, trying to set his shoulders in a stable line. “He always does, Mummy.”

“I’m simply here for tea, dear. Then I’ll leave you two on your own.”

The corner of Greg’s mouth twitched slightly, but he said nothing. Mycroft tried to keep from shaking his head. Don’t give her ideas, Gregory. Please.

“Now, dinner is at three. Don’t snack and ruin your appetite, Mikey.”

Mycroft closed his eyes as she disappeared into the sitting room. It was going to be an incredibly long day. When he managed to open his eyes, Greg was still there, hip propped against the counter, his legs crossed at the ankles. “I have ideas for your appetite.” He raised a brow as he took a sip of coffee.

“Gregory.”

He set the mug down and tutted. “C’mon, I’ll make you some toast.”

“You heard Mummy. No snacking.”

“It’s not snacking. It’s breakfast.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “Gregory.” There was a banging from the front hall and voices in the front room. “Oh Lord.” He planted his hands on the centre island and hung his head.

“Good Morning, brother dear.”

“Sherlock,” he bit out. This was about to go horribly, horribly wrong. “Welcome home.”

“That assassin, pardon,” he flashed an insincere smile. “Assistant of yours sent this for you.” He set a full bag at Mycroft’s feet. “It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell her I’m not your messenger pigeon…” He trailed off as he noticed Greg standing in the corner, sipping his coffee with amusement.

“Sherlock, how’s things?”

Mycroft cleared his throat delicately. “Sherlock, you of course know Gregory Lestrade. He’ll be staying with us for the day.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between Mycroft and Greg, and just before he could put together what Mycroft was sure would be a scathing dressing down, John pushed into the kitchen, ladened with an armful of bags. “Oi, thanks for leaving me to carry all this by myself… Happy Christmas is it?”

Mycroft sucked in a short breath as he noted the quirk of a smile flash across Gregory’s face. Don’t even think about it. Do not let the thought pass through your mind… “John,” Mycroft gave a polite nod.

John set a six-pack of beer on the worktop next to Mycroft with an exasperated grin and a wink. “Reinforcements for later.”

“Hope you’re sharing,” Greg chimed in from his spot in the corner. “I think we’re gonna be needing them.”

“Greg?” John startled and set the remaining bag of food down. “Didn’t know you were going to be here, mate.” He stuck out a hand and they shook, friendly and firmly.

“You know how these things just fall into place, eh?”

Mycroft’s brow shot up. Fall? Are we making wry jokes about this already?

“I’m like a bad penny. Just keep washing up where you least expect.” Greg’s eyes lit with mischief as he took a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock made a tight sound, high in his throat and three sets of eyes turned his way. “Dear Lord,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Tea for me, please.” He turned and headed out of the room. “No sugar. Thanks.”

John narrowed his eyes, watching Sherlock’s retreat with curiosity. “I missed something…”

Mycroft rearranged his expression into one of political disinterest. “It’s not important.”

“Coffee or tea?” Greg asked with a smile.

“Uh… Tea, thanks.” John frowned. “And Sherlock absolutely takes his tea with honey.”

Greg bit back a grin. “Of course he does.”

Mycroft, for reasons of self preservation, became intensely focused on the “bag” prepared by Anthea. A much safer task than watching Gregory engage in domestic activities in his parents’ kitchen. Neatly placed on the top of the bag with a bright red bow attached, was a new mobile phone. Ah. Yes, of course. He placed it on the worktop and eyed the neatly folded bundle of fabric remaining. Jeans, not for him for sure… No, for Gregory, matching his prefered size and fit, if not perhaps a half size smaller. A lovely, soft henley in a fetching shade of hunter green. Also, markedly for Gregory. A fresh pair of socks. And… he dropped the bag.

Greg glanced up as he handed John a second mug. “Myc, alright?”

“Yes, of course.” Blatant lie. Oh no, he was blushing.

“Oooh, is that for me?” he scooped up the mobile and grinned. “She’s really observant. I assume the upgrade is her call?”

“Didn’t know you were in the market,” John remarked casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Chucked mine in the lake,” Greg puffed out his cheeks with chagrin. “Apparently, not waterproof.”

John snickered. “I’ve lost more phones that way…”

Greg toggled the power and the phone started booting up. “Aw, look, it’s charged and everything.”

“If you don’t mind,” Mycroft held out his hand. “While I have every faith in Anthea, I’ve less in my brother. May I have a quick look, for security reasons?”

“Have at.”

“Speaking of your berk of a brother, I ought to bring him this tea before he comes looking for it.” John raised his mug in a quick salute. “Greg, you staying for dinner?”

“Absolutely.”

~

Greg passed the time before dinner in a number of productive activities. To start, he convinced Myc to have something that could, if you squinted hard enough, almost be a breakfast. Then, with a freshly booted, slightly upgraded mobile, with the same number - thank you Anthea - he phoned Millie and Pete for a quick chat, a festive wish, and a promise of dinner before the new year. His phone call with Ellie was longer, and private enough that he retreated to Mycroft’s room to have it. There was a good deal of teasing, it seemed, from his daughter about his current location and his plans for the day. He assured her that should she ever decide to bring a date home, he wouldn’t tease her, just abuse his police privilege to run an overly thorough background check. Turned out, Ellie found that hilarious.

Dinner itself was pleasant. Tamer than he thought it might be. Then again, he figured half the jokes were going over his head, but only about a third of them were at his expense. There was good wine, good food, and entertaining company. There also seemed to be a standing joke about the things that John Watson didn’t understand. Greg was happy to have someone in the same boat. And after dinner, after dessert, after coffees and extra biscuits, the group split into smaller ones. Greg wasn’t entirely sure where Sherlock and Mycroft had wandered off to. Or Mummy Holmes. But he found himself in the sitting room, comfortably on the couch, sipping whiskey with Robert.

“Well that was lovely.”

“Mmn,” Greg hummed. “I’m not gonna fit in my suit, but well… worth it.”

“I’m glad you joined us.” Robert smiled. “Sherlock speaks of you often.”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” Greg answered on reflex.

“Pity. He’s always been fond.”

Greg laughed. “Oh, then I know he’s lying.”

“Both my sons are.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Though, each in their own way.”

Greg sputtered at the cheeky wink he’d received. “Very different ways.” It was strange really, where Mummy was all the poise and self contained intellect, Robert was the grounding and mischief that eked out on the rare occasions that Mycroft truly relaxed. And the wry smile on Robert’s face was heartachingly familiar. “Oh, before I forget. I have… It’s… This… For you…”

Robert took the envelope with pleased surprise. “What’s this now?”

“Ah, you know…” He held his tumbler between both hands, watching the liquid as he tipped it back and forth. “Consider it a long overdue Christmas present.” He glanced up with a nervous grin.

He hummed and opened the envelope, pulling out a holiday card. “You didn’t need to do anything lad, it’s…” Robert trailed off as he eyed the contents of the card.

Greg chewed on his lower lip. “I should… Explain… I think…”

Robert held the business card carefully, reading Greg’s credentials on the one side, and flicking it over to see the mobile number scrawled on the back. He ignored the small fold of notes.  


“I…” Greg huffed out a laugh. “Only realised yesterday, if you’d believe it. I feel a bit of an idiot for it, but I guess I was young.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “I was very young… And you were so kind. And you, well, I think, I know it seemed small, but it was the hugest thing to me.” He took a fortifying sip of whiskey. “But I need you to know that I only found out yesterday. Myc didn’t know. And Sherlock didn’t know. And I only just… I…” 

Greg trailed off as Robert’s hand landed on his shoulder. And in the quiet that followed, he gave a gentle squeeze. “You made it somewhere safe then.”

“I did, Sir.” He nodded. “I just didn’t want anyone to think that I… That with Sherlock…”

“No one ever would.” Robert smiled gently and Greg felt something loosen in his chest. “Seems to me, that was the best investment I’ve ever made.”

Greg swallowed and forced a watery smile. Well, now he was going to cry.

“Oi, what’s this now? Mischief?”

Greg sat back with a start, but Robert just smiled warmly. “John, pull up a pew. We’re enjoying this whiskey a bit too much for the time of night.”

John snorted. “It’s five in the evening.” But it was said with good humor, and John poured himself a glass and settled in the empty armchair. “Well… Where’ve they got to?”

“What do you mean?”

John gestured around the room. “I’ve got the three of us here, and three idiot geniuses off in the wind. Do I want to know what they’re up to?”

Robert sighed and settled back into his armchair. “John. I honestly thought you knew better than to ask.”

~

Mycroft took a slow, controlled drag on the cigarette. If this was to be the last one of the year, he wanted to savour it. He might be hedonistic, but he was a spartan hedonist. The smell was going to linger on his coat and his gloves, but it was a small sacrifice for the rationed stimulation of nicotine. And he needed the slight piquancy to stomach any further interactions with his mother this evening. He blew out a steady column of smoke in a sigh. “Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sniffed and joined him at the front wall. “Mycroft.”

Without hesitation, Mycroft offered Sherlock a cigarette. “Just the one.”

“Of course,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a smirk. “It’s not a funeral.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “It’s early. Don’t underestimate Mummy.”

Sherlock grinned. “It’ll be our funerals if she steps outside.”

“I am under no misapprehension that she is unaware of what we are doing at any given moment. That she bothers to ask is simply a learned behavior from other functioning adults.”

“Practical.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Like your decision to take up with Lestrade?”

Mycroft hummed. “Rational decisions in relation to Gregory are few and far between. I imagine quite similar to yourself and John Watson.”

“Rational.” Sherlock scoffed. “What an odd concept when it comes to other people.”

“He went through the ice on the lake.”

“What?” Sherlock coughed out a lung full of smoke.

“Mmn. It was very… distressing…”

“He was lucky you were there.”

“We make our own luck, do we not?”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“We might as well be.” He considered the cigarette for a moment. “As horrifying as it was to watch, I cannot imagine doing so as a small child.” When Sherlock didn’t respond, he continued. “Nevertheless, I am grateful.”

“Duly noted.” 

“Happy Christmas.”

Sherlock took a breath, reconsidered, then sighed. “He seems… pleased.”

“I believe he is.”

“Good.”

“If you threaten me in order to maintain his well being, this conversation is over.”

Sherlock grinned. “But that’s the fun part.”

“Be that as it may,” Mycroft shook his head and carefully stubbed out the end of his cigarette. “You have three minutes before Mummy comes looking for us.”

“Oh God... “


	27. From Now On Your Troubles Will Be Miles Away

“Should I be worried that your PA is purchasing pants for me?” Greg stood and tugged the jeans up his thighs. Took a bit more work than normal. As soft and distressed as the denim was, they didn’t just heft into place as usual. Thank God the boxer-briefs were a perfect fit.

Mycroft stuck his head out from en suite, the remnants of shaving foam on his face and neck. “You assume she’s purchasing them?”

He paused, his hand on the zip of his fly. “Don’t tell me she stole them. I know better than to try to arrest her.”

“A wise choice.”

Greg tugged the henley on, taking a moment to try to set his hair back in order. “Either I’ve had too much to eat this year, or she’s got the wrong size on file, because as gorgeous as these are, it’s all a bit… snug.”

Mycroft emerged from the en suite, swiftly buttoning the collar of his shirt. He quirked a brow. “You must be mistaken. Those fit you. Perfectly.”

He tucked his tongue into his cheek in an effort to avoid a grin. “Is this going to be a problem while we’re driving back to London?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re implying.”

“The willful obstruction of a police officer while performing his duties, even if those are just transportation duties, has been illegal since Peel.” He gave Mycroft his best stern glare. “Don’t make me write you up for an ASBO.”

“A charge, as such, would never hold up.” Mycroft finished with his waistcoat and neatly slid his arms into his jacket. “Entrapment is illegal as well, and as much as it would be difficult, I am not above presenting visual evidence in my defense.”

“Sure. Ok.” Greg grinned. “I’m just going to put my shoes on now. You know. If you wanted to take a picture.”

“I have an eidetic memory, Gregory. Pictures are entirely unnecessary.”

Greg burst out laughing.

“Though, do put your shoes on. I rather insist we leave before my entire family is awake for a send off.”

“Right. I’m just going to make some coffee before we go. You want anything from the kitchen? Other than coffee?” He slung his duffle over his shoulder at the quick shake of Mycroft’s head. Right so. Coffee it was. Coat, hat, and gloves were already downstairs. Wallet, keys, mobile were shoved into his slightly snug jeans. It’d be close to two hours back into London proper, and Greg needed to go to the Yard and get cracking on some of the paperwork left from the case - he couldn’t expect Sally to do all of it, and certainly not over Christmas. Lord knows what the state of the world was, given Mycroft’s absence for a few days, and he’d insisted on straight in to the office in Whitehall. He rested the bag by the front door and pulled up short of the kitchen.

“Mornin’.”

Greg smiled easily. “John. You’re up early.”

“No rest for the wicked,” he murmured into his mug. “You’re not exactly having a lie-in yourself.”

It drew a laugh. “Yeah, well. You said it.” He set about making a fresh pot of coffee that was strong enough to get them to London. “Do you think they’d notice a sandwich or two missing?”

“It’s not like Sherlock ever eats the leftovers.” John paused for another sip. “Just don’t take all the mince pies… They’d definitely notice that.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah, alright. Shame I left the last of the fruitcake back home.” 

John choked on his tea.

“What?”

“Mummy… You know she… Literally wrote the book on combustion.”

A slow smile stretched across Greg’s face. “Sherlock had to get that somewhere.”

~

Mycroft reached the ground floor in time for Greg to rob the bag straight off his shoulder. “Where are you-”

“I’ll toss it in the boot. Coffee’s steeping, nearly ready. Just make sure I’ve not taken out travel mugs that your mum is going to hunt me down for. Don’t really fancy that. You?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow, but nodded. “Yes, of course.” No one wanted mummy hunting them down. It never ended well. He heard the front door snap shut as he made it into the kitchen. Ah, Dr. Watson was awake as well.

“Mycroft.”

Slept well. In a generous mood. Has had his morning tea. “John,” he didn’t bother with the polite smile, just a nod. The smile was off putting. “I trust you slept well.” The travel mugs wouldn’t be missed. They would be noticed, however. He made a mental note to ensure their return lest mummy feel the need to come find them. He depressed the handle of the cafetiere slowly.

Odd for Dr. Watson not to reply. He was usually quite sharp with them. Silence often belied anger. Though, Mycroft couldn’t think of anything thus far this morning to warrant it. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Half of a smirk. Why was he… Oh for the Love… Mycroft sighed. “Juvenile.”

John raised his brows, his expression as if butter wouldn’t melt.

“Ready?” Greg had selected that exact moment to reenter the kitchen. He glanced between them and chuckled, muttering a shut up at John.

“I didn’t say anything,” he held both hands up in mock surrender.

Greg shook his head, adding a splash of cream both mugs and a single spoonful of sugar to Mycroft’s. “You didn’t have to.” He snapped the lids on and handed the mug over with a gentle smile. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a pervy old coot.”

He couldn’t help the single laugh that escaped. But given the brightness in Greg’s eyes, he shouldn’t have bothered. He would have laughed eventually, one way or the other. “Of course.” He didn’t object over the sugar either. That was different. He couldn’t fathom why. “Shall we?”

“Oi, who’re you calling old, grey-haired geezer?”

There was no heat in John’s question. And Greg didn’t seem to take any offense, simply gestured Mycroft from the kitchen with a generous wave of his hand. “Just because blond hides grey more than brown, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“I think the silver is rather distinguished,” Mycroft murmured on his way out.

“Ta.” Greg didn’t quite blush, but Mycroft could see the effect of his comment. “Anyway, stay out of trouble, yeah? It’s been a long week, and the pair of you’ve been too quiet.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” John sipped his tea as innocently as possible.

“Right. And keep his majesty out of trouble while you’re at it?”

“I’ll do my best.” John set his tea down and glanced at Mycroft, his eyes absolutely glinting. “Quick question though. Is there a family discount on ASBOs for noise complaints?”

“Oh fuck off,” Greg muttered with a laugh at the same time that Mycroft managed a more controlled, “National Secrets Act.”

John burst out laughing.

“Alright,” Greg’s hand came to rest on the small of his back, encouraging him towards the front door. “Let’s go before one of you says something you’ll actually regret.”

Mycroft straightened and composed himself. “There is wisdom in that.” He didn’t miss the wink Greg shot over his shoulder. “The pair of you are rogues.”

“Odd word for law-enforcement, Myc.”

“There is a vast difference between law and actual order, Gregory.” He slid into the passenger seat of the car, warming as he noted the way it’d been held open for him.

“Controlled chaos?” Greg offered, starting the engine and cranking up the heat.

“Besides,” Mycroft murmured. “The appropriate way to address and Earl is ‘Lord,’ ‘Majesty’ is reserved for the Queen.”

Greg’s foot was a bit heavier on the accelerator than planned and the car lurched into motion. “Oh fuck off.”

“It’s true; I assure you.”

Greg managed to regain control and the car smoothed out down the drive. “If the pair of you are nobility, then I’m the Duke of Earl.”

Mycroft chuckled. An action he’d done far more of in the past few days than he could remember doing in the past few years. “Nevertheless, Your Grace, I don’t tend to take sugar in my coffee. Milk, yes. But not sugar.”

Greg glanced over with a grin. “Yeah, but you know you want to.”

~

The drive back to London was pleasantly calm. It was still early enough that there wasn’t much in the way of traffic, but late enough that the roads had been gritted again. It was bright enough that he needed his sunglasses, and that led him to think it was probably also cold enough that he should have put on a jumper as well. The Met was heated, it wasn’t like he’d freeze. It wasn’t until he was pulling in on a side street that he realised he was leaving Mycroft in to his office. Mycroft was going to work. Then he’d be off to the Yard to work. And then… What? 

There was probably enough nonsense to keep them both busy to the new year. And early January was depressingly busy for Violent Crimes. There were probably a crazy number of government turn-overs in January that Greg never bothered to think about. So he’d be busy. Mycroft would be busy. They’d see each other every few weeks when Sherlock’s nonsense demanded it. Or when a case needed governmental involvement and oversight. Or if they just happened to bump into each other. And that wasn’t really all that often. It also wasn’t really what Greg wanted. He slid the car into park and tucked his sunglasses up onto the top of his head with a sigh. “Let me get your bag.”

“That’s quite alright. I am more than capable. Stay where it’s warm.”

The blast of cold air when Mycroft stepped out of the car was enough to make him shiver, but as the boot snapped shut again, he rolled down the window and leaned across the seats. “Hey, Myc?”

“Hm?”

Greg glanced at the elegantly gloved fingers that rested on the door. He wasn’t quite sure how this was supposed to work. Wasn’t sure exactly what was expected now. He forced a smile that he didn’t quite feel. “Dinner? Soon?”

“Anthea rules my diary with an iron fist.” A glimmer of a smile crossed his face and Greg bit his lip. “However. One must eat eventually.”

Greg felt an honest grin soften the lines around his mouth. “Probably true.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “Certainly true.” His hand tapped the door lightly. “I shall be in touch.”

“Good.”

Mycroft turned and strode towards the entrance, and Greg watched him go, both for the view, and to make sure the damn thing was even open. There was absolutely no one around. But the door opened as Mycroft neared, and Greg did his best not to be disappointed by that. He had work. Mycroft had work. And the sooner they managed to get on top of it, the better. He nodded to himself, sighed, rolled the window back up, and headed for the Met.

It was Boxing Day, so the car park was half empty. And no one was there to open the door for him when he arrived. Not that anyone opened the door for him on non-holidays, but he was happy to brush it off as a skeletal staff issue. The bullpen was quiet. It was early yet; there’d be more people in an hour or two. 

More to the point, his office was quiet. The remnants of papers and requests and bits of information from the kidnapping were still spread across most of the flat surfaces. He still had a map bluetacked to the glass wall. Hell, he’d left his computer on. Then again, as much as he hated coming in to do clean-up, he was incredibly grateful that it was clean-up and not a still pending investigation. “Right.” He sighed and set his bag next to the couch, in the nearly only free space he could see. “Processing and reports.”

Two hours later, he was nearly done. The evidence was filed. The scraps were shredded. And he was working on finalising his report. The knock on the door made him jump enough that he knocked over the now empty travel mug.

“Well, now I don’t know if I should give this to you,” Donovan held out a fresh cup of coffee. “If you’re already that twitchy at,” she glanced at her watch, “ten in the morning.”

“Sally,” he waved her through the door. “Get in here. You’re a saint.”

“Is this your second or third of the day?” She set the cup on his desk and stooped to collect the mug from the floor. “What on earth is this supposed to be?”

“Uh… Chemical compound for caffeine.” It was a completely blind guess. But it was the only one that seemed to make sense off hand. Maybe one of the pleasure hormones? Nah. That didn’t sound right. Donovan gave him a skeptical look as she settled in the chair across from him. “Probably. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Didn’t know you for a chemist.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the coffee, Sal… But why are you here? I would have thought you’d be off today.”

She grinned. “But then where would you be?”

“Making another crap cup of coffee in the break room, probably. But I’ve managed to get through most of my reports. Is there anything leftover from the Bolger case?”

“Not really, no.” Sally stretched with a hum. “As long as you’ve filled in the details for the overtime that Al’s team pulled and the IT work.”

“Done. And I’ve even written up the report on how I found the house.” He flashed a smile. “I’m staying on top of my paperwork.”

“Gold star, Sir.”

“Don’t sass me. I’ll trade you to Dimmock.”

Sally scoffed. “For who?”

“Patel.”

Sally watched him for approximately five seconds before bursting out laughing. And Greg joined in. “Good one, boss. I almost very nearly believed you.”

“Yeah, well. The only way I’m letting you off my team is for a DI job and your own team.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “Just that?”

“Speaking of liking you,” she took a moment to select her words. “I’m glad that you didn’t drown in a lake.”

“Well, thanks.”

“I’m also glad you didn’t freeze to death.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Sally smothered a smile. “How did you keep from full blown hypothermia?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “A hot shower, dry clothes, a hot whiskey, and a good night’s sleep.”

Sally nodded slowly. “And what bed was that in?”

“Donovan…”

“Whose clothes?”

“Sally, stop.”

“I’m only asking,” she held up her hands in surrender as she rose from the chair. “I don’t want your job, because you’ve turned into a DI popsicle.”

“You’re ridiculous, Sal.”

She paused with her hand on the door frame. “Did he tuck you in?”

“Get out!”

“I like the new look, Boss.”

He lobbed a stress ball at the door as she pulled it shut. “Insubordination…” His mobile rang and he dug it out of his jeans to answer it. “Lestrade.”

“Hey, dad!”

“Hey, kiddo. How’s the beach?”

“Errr…. No beach.”

He frowned. “No beach? Is it raining?”

“Ah… No trip… For me.”

“Ellie, what do you mean?”

“Well. Look, don’t get mad.”

“Ellie…”

“There was a problem with the tickets, and mum…”

Greg groaned. “What did she do?”

“Something about the reservations and the rebooking… I don’t really know… There was a lot of yelling.”

“Oh God. Where is she now?”

“She’s… Well, mum’s in Portugal.”

“But… No trip for you… Where are you?”

“I’m at Millie and Pete’s!”

Greg sighed and let out a laugh. “How long do we get you for?”

“I don’t think she’d gonna be back this year.”

“Well that… That’s great, Monkey.”

“So… Dinner tonight?”

“Dinner tonight it is.”

~

Mycroft reached his office quickly, grateful for the pared down staffing that allowed the rapid arrival. Minimal socialising. No small talk. And he was absolutely unsurprised to find Anthea waiting. After a number of days away, during which he was horribly unproductive, there was likely to be a mountain of tasks that needed his immediate, if not previously given attention.

“Pleasure to see you this early.”

She smiled. “You have a meeting with Shadow Cabinet in an hour, an immovable briefing with Mossad at lunch, I believe the PM would like a word if you can spare a moment in the afternoon, you can of course, a dinner appointment that I will not move for you, and your mother has phoned.”

“Has she? That is rather restrained of her.”

“Three times.”

“That is quite more what I’ve grown to expect.” He settled in his desk chair and held out his hand. “I assume you have the files prepared for the briefing?”

“Of course.” She handed him a small file. “The prep for the meeting is in an email. And your mother is despairing over your departure without a formal dismissal.”

Mycroft sighed. “She was well aware that I was to be departing early. I cannot be held accountable for her inability to wake on time.” Not that he himself would have been out on time without Gregory waking him early… Pleasantly...

“Nonetheless. She was incredibly vocal with her displeasure.”

“I will phone her after my lunch meeting.”

“And if she calls in the meantime?”

“Assure her that I have died, chained to my desk, as she has always feared.”

“Of course, Sir.” She headed for the door, already sending emails from her mobile.

Mycroft cleared his throat neatly. “You failed to address the issue of dinner?”

“Oh. Forgive me.” She paused, halfway out the door. “Car will be here at seven to collect you. I’ve been assured it’s a casual event. What you’re wearing will be perfectly acceptable. That is all.” She stepped through the door and shut it with a delicate click.

“Anthea?” Mycroft blinked at the door. “What dinner?”


	28. Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The end of the day couldn’t come fast enough. Greg had finished as much paperwork as he could stand, and as he wasn’t actually on duty, there was nothing new hitting their in-boxes. He’d taken a working lunch, eating the sandwich of Christmas leftovers at his desk. He did share the cookies he’d nicked with whomever was around. Sally had cleared out around half three. The bullpen was still relatively calm. The worst of the infractions tended to be on Christmas Day or New Year’s Day. Boxing Day was for injuries from mates hanging out and over-indulging. It kept the emergency services busy, but Violent Crimes managed a bit of a break.

Just before he allowed himself to pack it in, he called Sam’s family. More than anything, he needed to put his own mind at ease. All of their statements had been taken diligently by Donovan prior to Christmas. This was unofficial follow-up. And it worked wonders for his peace of mind. Fortified with the knowledge that the family had managed a warm and private holiday, Greg decided it was time to leave. He had his own family to see.

Millie and Pete were still in Islington, so commute time was an absolute crapshoot. And now that it had started to snow again… Hell, he’d have been better off on the tube. But he just didn’t feel quite like leaving his car at the Yard. He accepted the possibility of leaving it out in Islington if he had an extra mug of mulled wine… Or two... 

The drive was long enough, but not horrendous. Slow, but oddly peaceful in the familiar London traffic. It was early enough that people were only heading out for the night. In a few hours, the celebrations would come dangerously close to the curbs, and it was an evening not to be behind the wheel of a car. He hummed along with the radio and drummed his hands on the steering wheel, watching the last of Clerkenwell drift past. The Christmas lights were still up and lit throughout the city, and even down the side-street, the colorful blinking was softened with the fresh snow. It was nice to be home.

Greg was greeted at the door before he could knock.

“Dad!” Ellie lept from the entry into a ready and waiting hug. 

He laughed as caught her. “You nutter! You don’t even have shoes on!”

“Shoes are for the weak!” she giggled back.

He hitched her a bit higher and turned towards the front garden. “Perfect. I’ll just leave you here in the snow then.”

“No! Don’t you dare!” She tightened her grip around his neck and tucked her feet up as high as they would go. “Don’t you dare!”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He turned back for the house and lifted her up over his shoulder. “You are getting way too big for this, Monkey!”

“We’re inside! You can put me down!”

He toed his shoes off at the door and headed straight for the sitting room, Ellie’s laughter nearly drowning out the sound of cheerful music. It looked as though she’d made a small nest on the couch in the front room. A holiday home away from home. And he gladly stooped and dumped her on the pile of pillows and blankets. “I’m surprised Millie let you leave your bed unmade before dinner.”

“Greg, mind your back.” Millie tutted as he stood, cracking his spine as he made it fully upright again. “She’s a guest, dear, anyway. You never were.”

Greg grinned and gave her a hug. “Only because you saw to it. Happy Christmas.”

She patted his cheek. “Come wash up and help me set the table.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me. You’ve never used that word respectfully in your life.”

Greg couldn’t help the mischievous smile as he followed her back towards the kitchen. “Of course, ma’am.”

Millie tutted again. “Michael, dear, could you not have at least blessed some sense into my boy?”

Michael looked up from where he’d been peeling potatoes. “God knows I’ve tried, Millie.” He dipped his fingers into the bowl of peels and flicked the starchy water at Greg. “The power of Christ compels you.”

Greg burst out laughing. Millie scolded them both with a shake of her hand. “Thick as thieves, the pair of you. Greg, the plates are there. We’re going to eat in the dining room. Now please.”

Greg pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, raised a brow at Michael, and retrieved the plates and cutlery. “Just the five, yeah?”

“Six. One more running late.”

“Who would dare be late?” Greg mocked a horrified look. “We’ll have them peeling potatoes next time.”

“We will be doing no such thing.” Millie stirred the large pot of mulled wine and tasted it delicately. “Hm… more port, I think.”

Michael grinned at Greg. Clearly the mulled wine had become stronger by the minute. It was going to be a great night. “Where’s Pete?” Greg called, laying out the dishes and returning for a pitcher of water. He’d fill the glasses now then light the candles.

“Popped out to the store a minute ago,” Michael answered.

“In the snow? I could have gotten something on my way.”

“Wanted a walk, I think.” Michael stood to dump the peels and brought Millie the potatoes. “Think we have enough? Or will I get the last few?”

“That’s lovely, Michael. Thank you.”

“Lovely enough for some mulled wine?”

“No!” She swatted his hand with an oven mit. “It will be ready when it’s good and ready, young man. Off you go now.”

“Ah, fine.” Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Greg out towards the sitting room.

“Shame you never learned to make water into wine,” Greg whispered.

“Pity you couldn’t arrest Santa on Christmas week,” Michael shot back. Greg laughed. “How is your head anyway?”

“You know, getting accosted by a Santa was one of the less traumatizing moments of the week.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Pete walked in, brushing snow from his shoulders. “It’s getting heavy again.”

“Too many people praying for a white Christmas,” Michael offered.

Greg rolled his eyes and took the bags from Pete. “You could have called. I’d have picked things up on my way.”

Pete clapped him on his shoulder. “Not a bother, Greg. It’s good to see you.”

“What’s in these anyway?” Greg peered into the bags as he brought them into the kitchen.

Pete grinned. “For breakfast.”

“Pancakes?” Greg offered, shelving the shopping piecewise.

“You’ll be the one making them, but there’s the goods for it.”

“Happy to.”

“Everyone come and get some mulled wine!” Millie called.

In spite of being in the sitting room, Michael and Ellie were the first to get their hands on a mug. Pete was next, still shaking off the cold of his walk to the store. Greg served Millie as she was finishing up the dinner and was about to get a mug himself when the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock, half seven.

“Right on time,” Millie murmured. “Greg, dear, will you get the door.”

~

There were a number of discrete issues to tackle throughout the day. It should not have been a long day, nor should it have been burdensome. However, following his two morning meetings and a disappointing salad during his briefing, Mycroft found himself both emotionally drained and cognitively distracted.

“Sir,” Anthea walked in with a sharp preceding knock. “Not to be the bearer of bad news…”

Mycroft rubbed two fingers against his temple. “I suspect my mother has been in contact.”

“She has.”

“And she is now insisting you put her directly through as I have elected to ignore my personal mobile.”

“She is.”

“And you believe I should contact her now.”

“I do.”

He opened his eyes in a skeptical glare. “And you feel I should undertake this herculean task before meeting with the Prime Minister.”

“If you do, Sir, I will liberate the Christmas cookies secreted in your bag.”

Mycroft straightened slightly. “The… Cookies?”

“Yes. In your bag.”

“I did not…”

“No. Of course not. But consider that someone else may have had access to your valise. Who would have taken pleasure in adding them.”

Gregory. “Possibly.”

Anthea’s lip quirked, never reaching a full smile. “Phone your mother. You can have a biscuit before meeting the PM.”

“Bribery of a government official,” Mycroft muttered.

“Absolutely, Sir. I remember somewhere it’s written that I am under no obligation to manage your personal life.”

“Sounds familiar, yes.”

“If you could be so good as to manage it, I wouldn’t be required to step in.”

“Good Lord.”

Mycroft’s phone began to ring.

Anthea raised a brow pointedly and left the room.

Thankfully, she returned twenty minutes later with a fresh tea, a small package of Christmas cookies, and news that the Prime Minister would be delayed no longer. Mycroft gladly disconnected the call and took a sip of the fresh tea. “I am slowly finding it in my heart to forgive you.”

“How generous.”

“When are we expecting the Prime Minister?”

“An hour. Plenty of time to enjoy your tea. Sir.”

“Anthea?” He caught her attention just before she made it out the door. “Take a biscuit with you.”

“Why thank you.”

It turned out that the Prime Minister wanted more than a quick word. In fact, he wanted a very large number of words, which took an absurdly long amount of time to say, and under no circumstances made adequate sense for the energy Mycroft required to pretend to be interested. And by the time the man left, Mycroft could feel the niggling pain of an impending migraine and was forced to rest his head in his hands.

Anthea slipped back into the room. “I see the tea was not, in fact, enough to make it through the meeting.”

Mycroft sighed. “Quite tragically, no.”

“Perhaps it’s time for a strategic retreat.”

“If I were to leave now, would that spoil the transportation plans for this mystery dinner?”

“It’s snowing, Sir. We could leave now and be on time.” 

“Then I suppose this day has been as productive as it ever could be.” He stood stiffly from his desk. “Will you be accompanying me on this dinner?”

“Only as far as the door.” Anthea collected her coat and purse. “I have my own plans for the evening.”

Mycroft raised a brow as he slipped his hands into his gloves.

Anthea gestured him through the door. “A gentleman never asks, Sir.”

He sighed and made his way to the car.

Anthea had been correct about the weather impeding their progress through the city. It took the better part of an hour to escape Westminster to Marylebone, though Hyde Park was the greatest part of the problem. They turned East towards Pentonville, and Mycroft shifted. “If you abandon me at the prison, I shall revoke all annual leave due to you in the new year.”

Anthea smiled. “Perhaps you ought to leave your tie.”

“My tie?”

“It will be unnecessary.”

“You really are leaving me at the prison.” Thankfully, they turned North towards Highbury, inching up the main street in Islington. He relinquished his tie. “Not that I’m ungrateful to be avoiding what would be a traumatic night behind bars, where are we going?”

Anthea reached into her bag and produced a bottle of wine with a crisp red bow. It was a nice vintage, nothing ostentatious. It was clearly meant as a gift to a host and Mycroft eyed it suspiciously. “Here. This is where we’re going?”

He glanced out the window at the row of brick houses, various bright and uncoordinated holiday decorations visible in front windows, along the roofs, and scattered in the small front gardens. “Where?”

“That one,” Anthea pointed. “Black door. You’re precisely on time.”

“But what am I doing here?”

“You’re making me late to my dinner, Sir.” She reached across him and opened the door. “Off you go.”

He gave her the most withering stare he could muster in the face of the cold draft. It was completely ineffective and she made a shooing motion with her hands. “Disgraceful,” he muttered, exiting the car and ducking his head against the falling snow. If he closed the door with more force than was entirely necessary, he refused to feel any remorse. He picked his way up the front walk, cautious of the scattered patches of ice. He shot another glare over his shoulder as he rang the bell. His car was idling on the street, clearly waiting to be sure the door opened to admit him, or rather to be sure he actually waited for the door to open and he went in.

He could hear people, conversation and merriment drifting through the cracks. It wasn’t his usual locale. He couldn’t possibly imagine what Anthea was sending him in to. Perhaps the door wouldn’t open, and he could simply slip back into the car and make his way home. Have a lovely fire in the fireplace, a brandy, a nice roast for di-

The door swung open, a wave of heat and sound and the smell of home cooking washing over Mycroft in a calming flood of sensation. And the first thing Mycroft could think was ‘socks.’ He was in his socks.

“Myc! Wh…” Greg’s eyes widened in surprise only a moment before a bright smile stretched across his face. “Get in here out of the snow!”


	29. We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet

“Shut the door. You’re letting all the cold air into the house, Greg!”

“Dad! Mug toast time! Hurry up!”

“Dinner in twenty minutes!”

A slow flush spread across Greg’s face as he stepped aside to let Mycroft in. “I uh…” He shut the door gently, still smiling hesitantly. “Didn’t know you were coming… Here…”

Mycroft listened to the chatter and noise. He could hear the sounds of food preparation from down the hall - clearly the kitchen, hard used over the day. People in the front room, talking, moving easily, the creaking floors, the hum of pipes. There was music playing somewhere, a Christmas radio station, but from which room, Mycroft couldn’t say. Shoes were piled on a second mat next to the door. Coats were hung and draped over the coat rack. It smelled of mulled wine and spices and roast. The small space heaving with details that screamed ‘home.’

Greg was curling his toes. In his socks. Mycroft blinked. Shy - the behavior wasn’t rejection or suspicion; Greg Lestrade was self-conscious, apprehensive, bashful having Mycroft in his home. And it was certainly  _ Home _ . Capital ‘H’ - home. And it almost made Mycroft nervous. Almost. “In the spirit of full disclosure,” he murmured. “Neither did I.”

“Well…” Greg scratched the back of his neck. “Welcome to the McCarthy House. It’s…” He gestured and puffed out his cheeks.

“Lovely.”

His brows shot up, warm wonder filling his face. “I-”

“Dad! We’re all wai-”

A familiar face appeared from what Mycroft could only assume was the sitting room. “Eleanor, pleasure to see you again.” She grinned, and in less than a blink Mycroft knew. “How very kind of yourself and Anthea to arrange this evening.”

Unabashedly brazen, Ellie laughed. “You both need some mulled wine.” And she was off down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Not really sure I want to know how they know each other.” Greg huffed out a laugh. “Here, let me take your coat.”

“I’m afraid it is entirely my own fault. I may have put them in touch when I was looking for your gift.” He passed over his coat and watched as Greg found a place to hang it on the overburdened coat rack. “Shoes off?”

“Uh, yeah,” Greg’s smile was fond. “Shoes off.” Mycroft offered him the bottle of wine, but Greg just shook his head. “That’d be for the head of the house, yeah? Not me, I’m afraid. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

Rather than the sitting room, Greg first led him back towards the kitchen. Ellie met them in the doorway and pressed mugs of warm mulled wine into their hands and winked, slipping between them and out towards the front room. Greg just grinned and cleared his throat. “Millie?”

“Oh hello!” Mycroft watched as she dried her hands on the nearest tea towel. “I was so glad to hear you could make it. When Ellie said that Greg had a new man in his life, I just knew we had to have you round for dinner.” 

Over her shoulder, Greg sputtered into his mulled wine. “She said what?”

“Let’s have a look at you now.” With a mug in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, Mycroft had no option but to let her take him by the elbows and look him up and down. She shot a look at Greg that had him turning red out to the tips of his ears and hiding a smile behind the rim of his mug. “Yes, very dapper.”

Mycroft blushed.

“Mycroft Holmes, meet Millie McCarthy.” Greg seemed to collect himself. “And this is… New, Millie. Like. Very new. So can we please…”

“Of course it is. I’ve only heard the name bandied about for the better part of a decade.” Millie released Mycroft’s arms and plucked the bottle of wine from his hands. “And this was completely unnecessary, but is very welcome, as are you.” She turned towards Greg, patted his cheek, and smiled. “You’re a good lad. Now off with you both. I’ve to finish making dinner.”

Greg ducked his head as he headed for the hallway, “Yes, ma’am.” Mycroft dodged the quick fick of an oven mitt that caught Greg’s shoulder. Greg just laughed and stuck out his tongue, escaping the kitchen relatively unscathed. “C’mon. Pete is in the front room with everyone else.” A wry smile crossed his face. “And if you can survive Millie, you’ll be fine. Just… Go easy on the mulled wine. It’s stronger than you think.”

Mycroft tasted his wine and hummed. “I imagine one mug is sufficient?”

“Depends on what you’re trying to achieve.” 

“And if I wish to avoid oven-mitt assault?”

Greg’s face morphed into the picture of innocence. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“Don’t listen to him,” a voice piped up from the sitting room. “He knows exactly what he should be doing, but he’s a total heathen. And resents authority.”

“Oi!” Greg complained, pointing with his free hand. “You’re in no position to talk about my problems with authority.”

Mycroft raised a brow, watching the interaction with interest.

“You’re not gonna argue the heathen bit, then?”

“Not with you, M’not.”

“Don’t let him boss you around, eh?”

Mycroft’s brow arched even higher, intrigued at the thought of Greg taking charge. Perhaps even in more ways than one. “Dare I ask, on whose authority you refer to Gregory as a heathen?”

“Oh boy,” Ellie muttered.

Greg sighed. “Mycroft Holmes, meet Father Michael from St. Ignatius’. Michael, this is my… Um, Mycroft.”

Michael stuck out his hand. “Don’t let the title fool you. I’ve known Greg here was nothing but bad news since we were ten.”

Mycroft’s second brow joined the first in a race towards his hairline. “A childhood friend.” The beginning of a smile turned the corner of his mouth. “How advantageous. You must have photographs from your misspent youth together.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying mugshot?”

Greg practically stepped between them. “Nope. No. That’s enough.”

“Confession’s at the usual time this week, Greg-o.”

“Shut it.”

Mycroft leaned in close to whisper in Greg’s ear. “You must be well aware, I can access archived juvenile records.”

“Not sealed ones,” Greg murmured.

“God forgives, Greg,” Michael continued.

“The Law doesn’t.”

“Not you too, Pete,” Greg groaned.

“Don’t worry, kid. I was talking about this one.” Pete clapped a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Forgivable only in the eyes of the Lord. Go sit down,” he nudged Michael towards one of the chairs. “Now. Greg. Introduce me to your young man.”

Mycroft watched the flush crawl up the back of Greg’s neck with interest. He quite liked the idea of being Greg’s young man. Pete was tall, sturdy, and the hand he held out was firm. 

“Right,” Greg eased to the side, giving them a bit of space. “Pete, this is Mycroft Holmes. Myc, Pete McCarthy.”

“Myc,” Pete shook his hand. 

The curt but warm greeting was achingly familiar. The mannerisms clearly manifest of years working at the Met had been consciously or unconsciously mirrored by Greg when he was younger and now were etched in the pair of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

Pete huffed or scoffed or through some combination of vocal shrug and body language tried to dismiss the formal greeting. “None of that now.” Even the candor and humility, the easy self-effacement was something that had served Greg well as he advanced through the ranks of the Violent Crimes division. “I hear you work in Government?”

“Myc basically runs the government,” Greg chimed in.

Pete puffed out his cheeks for a moment. “Dang, well, see what you can do about staffing at the Met then.”

Mycroft laughed. “I’m working on it, I assure you.”

“From where I’m standing, you’ve been pulling resources every time Greg here has had to lend a hand on a case he couldn’t talk about later.”

It was a good-natured challenge, no malice behind it. Greg tried to interject anyway, “Pete-”

“Yes well, one might argue that my brother alone would have placed the Met well into the red without Gregory’s guiding hand.”

Greg flushed. “Myc, stop.”

A soft, proud expression passed across Pete’s face. “Be that as it may…”

“You’re quite right,” Mycroft finished for him.

“Dad, you really ought to sit,” Ellie cut in, raising her mug as high as it would go from her seat on the couch. “You’re delaying the toast!”

Greg barked out a laugh, “God forbid. Now scoot over, Monkey.” He nudged her over to one end of the sofa. “You want us here, you gotta make room.” He settled in the middle and patted the empty seat next to him. “If you can stomach one more terrifying tradition.”

“Oh dear.” He regarded Greg with an amused dread. “More traditions.”

Pete eased himself into the remaining arm chair. “As long as you still have some mulled wine in your mug when we’re done, you’ll be fine.”

“How are we starting this time?” Ellie tucked her feet up beneath her on the couch.

“Age before beauty,” Michael offered.

“I have to go last?!”

Pete grumbled something back and Michael grinned. “What was that?”

“Nothing I’ll repeat in front of the young people and God,” he muttered. “Right. So. Uh. I… Would... Like to drink a toast to retirement.” He smiled and raised his mug.

Greg laughed. “You old dog!”

A loud chorus of ‘Cheers’ erupted, and Mycroft watched as everyone raised their mug and took a drink. He leaned over, “I have no idea what is going on here.”

“We toast to the good fortunes of everyone,” Greg told him. “You offer your toast, and if someone can’t claim the same excellent blessing themselves, they drink.” A twinkle of mischief appeared in Greg’s eyes. “And if everyone can’t be the same blessed, they can at least be drunk.”

“Ah.” Mycroft cleared his throat delicately. It could easily get quite out of hand.

“Now, I’m five whole days older than you, Lestrade, so don’t even think about trying to get a foot in early.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, you hoary aged priest.”

“Who are you calling hoary?” Michael smirked. “You went grey at twenty.”

“It was twenty-eight, and you damn well know it.”

“Well, in any case, a toast to attaining a Doctorate of Divinity.”

Ellie coughed into her fist, “Kiss-ass.”

“Ellie,” Greg warned.

“What?”

“You’re allowed to suck up to God,” he finished.

Pete snickered. “Well, cheers to that, so.” And everyone raised a toast… And drank more wine.

“Your family is rather dangerous,” Mycroft murmured, the warm flush of multiple forms of alcohol reaching his face.

“Pot-Kettle.” Greg sighed and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “I’ve met your family.”

Mycroft smiled.

“Here’s to getting smacked in the head with a bible by a thief dressed like Santa,” Greg lifted his mug with a grin. “And living to tell the tale!”

Ellie gaped at him. “I’m sorry, what?!”

“Struck down by the good news,” Michael offered.

“Shut up, Michael.”

“Ellie,” Greg said firmly.

“Nuh-uh.” She narrowed her eyes at them both. She wasn’t truly angry, but she put on a good show of it. “It’s not enough that you fell in the Thames, but you’re getting hit by robbers?”

“I was off duty?” Greg offered at the same time Mycroft said, “It wasn’t the Thames.”

She rolled her eyes and addressed Mycroft. “Can’t you do something? Like… I don’t know… Cotton wool? Bubble wrap?”

Mycroft hummed in amusement. “I’ve even considered handcuffs. Alas, every time I turn my back, he’s gone for a wander again.”

“Oi,” Greg laughed. “It’s work, not an absent wander.”

“You’re both as bad,” Ellie grumbled.

“Where’s my toast then, eh?” Greg raised his mug. “To the Word of God!”

Pete huffed out a laugh and gave a hearty, “Cheers.”

As an anticipatory calm suffused the room, Mycroft suddenly became aware that all eyes in the room were looking at him. “Hm? Oh. Oh, it’s my turn, is it?”

“Absent wander,” Greg murmured with amusement.

Mycroft flashed him a warm look. Then quickly tried to think of something to toast. Identifying a success that wouldn’t be shared by the room at large wasn’t a challenge. Of course, a success he could discuss in general company was a larger challenge. Discretion was necessary. Humor was likely more imperative. Something personal, yet not uncomfortable for Greg’s family - particularly his daughter. It was more difficult than he’d initially suspected. But then his eyes caught on one of the bookshelves. One of many bookshelves in the room. Filled to bursting, sagging in the middle. And the bottom two shelves held Christmas Annuals, crammed together so tightly, it would be hard to pull one free.

Mycroft hummed again and lifted his mug. “A toast to having finally found a long lost item from childhood, returned in even better condition than when it was lost.”

Every inch of Greg’s face melted with gentle affection. “Myc…” There was a hearty round of ‘Cheers,’ which Mycroft happily ignored in favor of the adoration reflected in Greg’s eyes. 

Ellie raised her mug. “Here’s to finding a new girlfriend!”

“What?!” Greg sputtered.

~

Greg grumbled and tightened his arms around the pillow. It was far too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be dealing with the impending headache from the sheer volume of mulled wine he’d consumed.

“A thousand apologies, but I fear I must prepare to leave for work.”

He hadn’t been expecting the pillow to argue with him. Or move. Or escape the bed and steal the heat away with it. Or start getting dressed in the dim light of the early hours of the morning. He groaned and forced himself further awake. “D’you hafta?”

Mycroft chuckled softly and drew the duvet snugly up to Greg’s chin. “It’s the last day of any productive value until the new year.”

“Shit, I’ll have to go do our expense reports.”

“Perhaps. But not for some time yet.”

Greg dropped an arm across his eyes and sighed. “This week is basically useless anyway.”

Mycroft hummed an affirmative from somewhere near the door. “But you wouldn’t want to leave the current PM to his own devices for an entire week. I have considered it, but it would be… Ill-advised.”

“Jesus, no.” There was a thunk from nearby and he willed his eyes open. 

Mycroft ran his fingers fondly through Greg’s hair. “Water and aspirin. I’ve set your alarm. Go back to sleep.”

Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s wrist and tugged him closer, sneaking a quick kiss. “Dinner?”

“I might be quite late.”

“It’s a Friday; come to mine.”

Mycroft hesitated. “Eleanor…”

“Would be glad to stay with Millie for another night.”

“Are… Are you sure?”

“I know my daughter. If she’d wanted something else, we’d have both been on the floor.” Greg grinned. “She normally sleeps on the hide-away under this bed when we’re here. She picked the couch.”

Greg watched Mycroft absorb the information, saw the conclusions in the flicker of his eyes. “She… expected…”

Greg huffed and captured Mycroft’s face between his palms. “I grew up in this room, Mycroft Holmes. My… My parents are in the next room.”

“That did nothing to dissuade you in my bedroom.”

“Your parents were in a different wing.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Mycroft,” Greg drew him closer. “You have about one minute to leave before I drag you back into this bed and make it exceptionally difficult for you to work.”

Mycroft quirked a brow. “One minute?” He placed his hand squarely in the centre of Greg’s chest and pushed, not relenting until Greg was flat on his back. Then gave him a firm, chaste kiss, drawing back before Greg could think of holding on. “Stay.”

“Tease,” Greg sighed.

“I shall see you at dinner.”

“Good.”

~

The day was unforgivably tedious. The meetings were tedious, the people were tedious, the thoughts he was thinking about the tediousness were, in fact, tedious. And by midday, Mycroft was in a state. It seemed that no amount of bargaining or bartering could convince certain high-ranking members of Parliament that no one would be finishing the restoration of Big Ben any sooner than already planned. Mycroft had stooped so low as to call the sitting PM a ‘Great Bell End’ under his breath. He was not particularly proud of that type of behaviour. And he slaked his guilt by reassuring himself that Gregory would approve of exactly that type of behaviour. Perhaps he might even reward that type of behaviour.

Anthea managed to procure sandwiches when he finally escaped from the inanity. And a much needed cup of tea. The sandwiches disappeared quickly, and a second cup of tea appeared in hopes of settling him for the afternoon. “Dare I ask what messages you have accumulated in my absence?”

Anthea returned with a small plate of biscuits and a likely unnecessary handwritten list of calls. The biscuits were a bad sign. He frowned at the plate. Anthea chose to ignore his expression, delicately sliding the plate two inches closer to him. “China is concerned over the pending closing of the markets. The remaining issues from the G20 are yet to be addressed by the committee, and there have been expressions of concern regarding the commitment to the new resolutions. The President of the United States…” She paused, eased the plate even closer to him. “I won’t elaborate.”

Mycroft sighed and pressed two fingers to his forehead. “Dear Lord.”

“Your brother called. The PM wants Big Ben to chime on New Years.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “I have spent the entirety of the morning-”

“Please, Sir. Have a biscuit.” She waited until he selected one from the tray. “The stakeholders meeting will be on the second. I assure you, the files will be fully updated. And…”

“What could possibly be further down that list?”

“Your mother called as well.”

Mycroft finished the biscuit in two overly-large bites and took a calming sip of tea. “I will not be phoning her back from the office.”

“Of course not.”

He took a moment to gather himself. “I will leave this office at five. If there is some sort of self-important political imbecile blocking my exit at the time, I will rather insist on their removal by force.”

“Is it Christmas again already?”

Mycroft forced a smile. “However, we shall endeavour to minimize the work hanging over the weekend to the best of our abilities, will we not?”

“Absolutely.”

At two minutes to five o’clock, Anthea knocked sharply on his door and let herself in. “Deepest apologies, Sir. You are needed elsewhere.”

Mycroft smiled blandly, while inside he was weeping with gratitude. “Thank you, Anthea.” He cleared his throat and stood pointedly, addressing the human speed hump on the far side of his desk. “I fear we must table this discussion for another time. Given the fact that your party no longer exists, nor has a purpose for existing, I recommend you seek alternative employment.” He accepted his coat and briefcase from Anthea with a polite nod and followed her out the door of his own office. “If he’s there when you go back in, I authorise deadly force.”

“With pleasure, Sir.”

“And Anthea,” he paused and seemed to weigh his next words carefully. “I shall see you Monday, when we will conclude the remainder of business for the year. I do not expect you in this weekend, nor on New Year’s Eve.”

An unusual smile quirked the corner of Anthea’s mouth. “Well. Happy Birthday, then.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and headed out of the office and into his waiting car. Traffic looked to be normal for a Friday evening, an equal number of holiday makers in town as had left. It would be a slow enough drive to allow Mycroft a moment of peace, to empty his mind of the tedium, and to hopefully settle his nerves. He was not accustomed to nerves.

**_I have, apparently, escaped my handlers. Are you available for dinner? - MH_ **

_ Better not tell them where you’re off to. So. Yes. Same place we talked about. As soon as you can. And don’t bring your PA. ;) x -G _

**_I granted her a free weekend. She shan’t be joining us. More’s the pity. - MH_ **

_ When’ll you get here? Just need to set the timers for the oven. - G _

**_Twenty minutes, give or take. - MH_ **

_ Give or take? Give or take what? An hour? - G _

**_Nineteen minutes, give or take one minute. - MH_ **

_ Rounding off the numbers then? - G _

**_We are nothing if not precise. - MH_ **

_ Long day? - G _

**_Tedious, in fact. - MH_ **

_ That’s a shame. Well, I’ll see what I can do to improve it when you get round here. - G _

**_I warn you, that may be a rather monumental task this evening. - MH_ **

_ Hm… Good thing I’m willing to apply myself. Diligently. Over and over. To see this sorted. - G _

**_How ambitious of you. - MH_ **

_ I like to think big. ;) - G _

_ Oughtta pay attention so I don’t burn my flat down. See you soon? - G _

**_Eleven minutes. - MH_ **

Mycroft slid his phone into his breast pocket and watched the city flash by the windows. Dinner again. They were making quite the habit of it. Not that he could fault it, but he was looking forward to a quieter, more personal meal. Perhaps sharing a bottle of wine. Not that the family dinner had been lacking. It was rambunctious and cozy, full of conversation and pleasant argument, good food and more drink. But it had been a lot of people. A lot of stimulation. The forgiving, family atmosphere only made it slightly less straining than the day. He would still need to phone his mother. Sherlock would be happier with a text. There were a number of things he’d need to process. Particularly what it was he and Greg were doing.

He sighed as the car glided to a stop. Ten minutes and thirty seconds. He didn’t wait for his driver to open the door. He let himself out and waved the car away. He didn’t need anyone to waste their time this evening. By some coincidence, another person was exiting the building and it wasn’t necessary to ring the bell. Instead, he made his way up to the third floor and knocked loudly.

“Myc?! One sec! Hang on!”

He could hear Greg moving in the flat. Something heavy being set down. The click of the lock as it slid free. And finally the door swung open.

Greg was grinning broadly. “Hey!”

It was infectious, and Mycroft couldn’t keep from smiling. “Good evening.”

Greg glanced at his watch, a wry smile replacing the grin. “Right on time. Get in here. Let me take your coat.”

“Thank you.”

The flat was… smaller than he’d expected. Warm. Homey. And it smelled amazing. It smelled like butter and garlic. And warmth. And… Cake. It smelled of freshly baked cake. His eyes widened in surprise as he noticed the cake in the middle of the table, candle lit in the center.

“Happy birthday,” Greg murmured.

“I…”

“Did you think I forgot? It’s been two whole days, Myc. My memory isn’t that bad.”

Mycroft felt the heat suffuse his cheeks. “I only didn’t expect…”

A gentle hand smoothed down his back. “Go make a wish.”


	30. The Ghosts of Christmas Yet to Come

Greg Lestrade loved Christmas. He loved winter, the bite in the air, the flurries and occasional actual snow, the colorful lights, the sometimes loud decorations, the songs, the singing, the parties, the people, the presents, the surprises, the food and the drink, and the genuine good cheer. He wasn’t much of a church goer, but even going into Advent, he was known to haunt the vigils. Maybe it was the candles and the greenery, or the messages of hope, or the familiarity of the stories, but a holiday that managed to get him to a weekly mass couldn’t be bad at all. 

Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas. He hated the winter, the cold actually made his knee and hip ache - though that was not something others were ever to know - the tiny crystals of frozen death that fell from the sky to disrupt the proper function of transportation were terrible, the blinking lights and loud noises brought about his migraines, the abysmal excuse for what passed as music - not to mention the people singing it, dear Lord - the ever increasing social obligations and nonstop political kowtowing, the people, the sheer volume of people, the gifts one had to obtain and the shops through which one had to pass, the irritating unpredictability of it, the volume of food that was foisted upon you at any moment, the excess of alcohol - and the forms in which that alcohol took in favor of mimicking peppermint - and most of all, the forced, unrealistic, sickeningly sweet cheer that everyone plastered on their faces. Between the dinners, the parties, the church, the government, the family, the pounds of extra weight, Christmas was the worst.

So yeah. Greg Lestrade loved Christmas. And he celebrated it like a joyful, competitive sport. And also, yes. Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas. And he nurtured that hatred with all the attention and devotion of a new parent. But Greg Lestrade also loved Mycroft Holmes. And Mycroft Holmes certainly did not hate Greg Lestrade. So if, from time to time, Greg opted to stay at home, listening to the more traditional type of Christmas music - mostly just strings and pianos, and maybe cooking a nice dinner with some salad (and of course mince pies for dessert), Mycroft would turn a grateful blind eye. And if, on the odd occasion, Mycroft carefully planned a limited attendance at a more festive, public holiday party, or indulged Millie by imbibing another mug of mulled wine, or subjected himself to the unpolished vocals of secondary school pantos, then Greg would smile just a little bit brighter for the duration of the season.

Mycroft continued to restrict the decorations in his home office to a tasteful tree with conservative lights and ribbon. There was another armchair in the room though. And a second chair at the desk. Greg managed to think bigger when he set to decorating the sitting room tree. The same angel would sit atop. And he often had to soothe sore fingers when Mycroft wasn’t as dexterous threading the popcorn and cranberries for garland. There was always a small Christmas tree on the bureau in their bedroom.

Christmas was a special holiday for them. Full of a combination of the ghosts of Christmases past and the comforts of Christmas present. But the lull between Christmas and New Year’s Eve was their honeymoon. In the food sedate, still dark, slow-work week, they could celebrate Mycroft’s birthday. Their anniversary. And spend some time building shared traditions, slowly weaving spirits for the future left to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone entertained by Author's Notes can find them [HERE](https://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/190914711483/fairytail-of-new-scotland-yard-authors-notes)


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